B 

• 

• 
• 


is 


USUUS 


"  Molly" 


*»  -*• 


"Miss   Evelyn   Berkeley 


Journeys  End 

A  Romance  of   To-day 


- 


BY 

JUSTUS    MILES    FORMAN 

Illustrated  by  Karl  J.  Anderson 


NEW  YORK: 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1903 


Copyright,   IQOZ,   1903,  by 
John  Wanamaker 

Copyright,   1903,  by 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

Published,  February,  1903 


tfce  teal  (Etoelpn 


925359 


If     CONTENTS       ' 

1 

PAGE 

Chapter         I.          .... 

7 

Chapter        II.           .... 

17 

Chapter      III  

-27 

Chapter      IV  

•           51 

Chapter        V.           .... 

•           71 

Chapter      VI  

.       81 

Chapter     VII  

-       9i 

Chapter  VIII  

.     103 

Chapter      IX  

•     H3 

Chapter        X.           .... 

•     i3i 

Chapter      XL           . 

149 

Chapter    XII  

•     163 

Chapter  XIII  

.     181 

Chapter  XIV  

•     193 

Chapter     XV  

.    203 

Chapter  XVI.          . 

.    223 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Molly       .......         Frontispiece 

Miss  Evelyn  Beikeley     ....      Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

"  The  ragged  sky  line  of  New  York  "      .         .       iS 

1 '  What  Evelyn  Berkeley  wants  is  a  play,'  said 

the  actor "  .         .         .         .         .40 

Calthrop  sees  the  "  church  parade  "  on   Fifth 

Avenue   .......       44 

11  She  was  coming  in  "    .....       54 
11  Half  a  notion  that  they  had  met  before  "       .       56 

"  The  notion  of  trying  to  write  a  play  began 

to  possess  him  "       .....       6a 

"All   the  sights   and  sounds  and  smells  that 

were  inalienably  home  ! "          .         .         .66 

1  You  don't  know   what  exile  is,  Mr.    Cal 
throp  ! '" 96 

1  You'll  be  missing  Mr.  Carter,  sir,  'e  was  such 

a    nice,  larky  sort  of  young  gentleman"       132. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS— 


FACING   PAGE 

11  The  red-haired  young  woman  .  .  .  gave 
a  sudden  smothered  cry.  '  Miss  —  Miss 
Berkeley  —  something  dreadful  has  hap 
pened  '  '  .  .  .  .  ...  152 

"  Something  Elizabethan  to  sing  ancient  love 

songs  to  "        .         .         .         .         .         .      164 

"Came  smiling  upon  the  stage  with    the  tall 

figure  of  Cecil  Calthrop  at  her  side  "        .     184 

"  Ordered   a  ruinously  extravagant   bunch  of 

pink  roses  "     .          .          .          .          .          .     204 

"  Found   himself   standing   in   the   rear   of   a 

crowded  theatre  "    .....     206 

11  Led  Miss  Berkeley  upon  the  stage  "     .         .     214 

"  He  had  left  orders  for  all  the  newspapers  to 
be  brought  to  his  room  early,  and  he  read 
them  "  .......  224 


CHAPTER   I 


CHAPTER  I 

OUT  on  deck  it  was  raining,  and  the 
wind  had  risen  with  the  sea  until  it  tore 
shrieking  past  the  open  companionway 
amidships  and  brought  up  the  boom  and 
rush  of  the  waters  under  the  bow.  There 
was  a  misty  circle  of  white  about  each  of 
the  swaying  masthead  lights,  and  the 
deck  planks  shone  dispiritingly  where  the 
glow  from  the  electrics  fell  upon  them. 

Young  Calthrop  paused  in  the  compan 
ionway  and  buttoned  his  rain-coat  under 
his  chin  and  pulled  down  his  cap.  It  was 
warm  and  bright  and  comfortable  inside. 
The  men  loafing  about  the  stair-rail  where 
the  steamer  rugs  hung  called  out  to  him 
cheerily,  and  from  the  music-room  forward 
3 


&\;\  JOURNEYS   END 

-he  heard  the  little  white  and  gold  piano 
tinkling  and  the  nice  voice  of  the  pretty 
young  Canadian  girl,  who  had  eyes  like 
turquoises,  singing  "The  Bonnie,  Bonnie 
Banks  o'  Loch  Lomond."  But  Calthrop 
seemed  not  to  be  quite  in  the  mood  for 
fishing  stories,  nor  for  Scotch  music,  nor 
for  the  warm  comfort  of  the  cabin,  for  he 
stepped  out  upon  the  deserted  deck  and 
made  his  way  forward  as  far  as  the  prome 
nade  deck  extended,  till  he  stood  by  the 
big  ship's  bell  under  the  bridge,  where  the 
wind  beat  the  breath  back  into  his  throat 
and  nostrils,  and  stung  his  eyes,  and 
snapped  the  skirts  of  his  long  coat  behind 
his  legs  like  a  whip-lash.  He  watched  the 
bow  sink  in  a  smother  of  dim  gray  foam 
and  heave  up  again  toward  the  sky  with 
a  roar  of  great  seas.  He  watched  the 
foremast  swing  and  plunge  and  quiver 
drunkenly,  and  followed  with  his  eyes  the 


JOURNEYS   END  5 

huge  white-crested  seas  that  swung  into 
the  little  circle  of  light  about  the  ship  and 
out  of  it  again  with  a  vicious  slap  against 
the  steel  plates  that  they  couldn't  harm. 
And  it  seemed  good  to  him — seemed  to 
gratify  an  inner  restlessness,  soothe  with 
its  tumult  a  certain  other  insistent  tumult 
that  had  been  threatening  all  the  day  to 
engulf  him.  He  thrust  his  face  stubbornly 
against  the  wind  and  stared  out  before 
him  into  the  wet  gloom  where  lay  that 
strange  America  of  which  he  knew  so  little 
and  hoped  so  much 

On  clear  evenings  a  great,  clear-blazing 
star  hung  in  the  west  —  Venus,  he  well 
knew.  He  would  have  preferred  Mars 
or  Jupiter,  or  something  else  rather  more 
symbolic  of  the  strenuous  life  and  of  the 
great  things  he  meant  to  do  out  yonder; 
but  that  couldn't  be  helped.  He  had 
stood  every  evening  by  the  rail  watching 


6  JOURNEYS  END 

that  great  star  and  wondering  about  the 
unknown  land  that  lay  beneath  it.  The 
star  had  seemed  to  give  him  courage,  to 
brighten  his  hopes,  to  quicken  his  imagina 
tion  till  he  was  all  brave  eagerness  for  the 
struggle  ahead  of  him ;  and  the  things  back 
there  in  England  where  the  smoke  was 
going  seemed  already  dim  and  pale  and 
alien.  But  this  day  with  its  dispiriting 
fog  and  rain  and  wind,  and  this  black,  wet 
night,  had  seemed  to  take  all  the  bravery 
out  of  him,  had  seemed  to  rob  that  land 
out  in  the  west  of  all  its  bright  allure 
ments  and  to  people  it  with  disappoint 
ments  and  terrors.  And  the  "  things  back 
there  in  England"  had  grown  suddenly 
very  dear  and  fresh  in  his  mind,  and  con 
sequential,  till  he  was  sick  for  the  sight 
and  feeling  and  smell  of  home ;  and  very 
rebellious  against  the  fate  that  had  driven 
him  out  from  it. 


JOURNEYS  END  7 

Young  Calthrop's  father,  who  was  dis 
tant  cousin  to  the  Earl  of  Oxbridge  and 
to  the  old  Duke  of  Strope,  had  died  some 
two  months  since  of  heart  failure,  super 
induced  partly — as  afterward  appeared — 
by  financial  worry,  and  partly  by  an 
unwise  and  wholly  gratuitous  attempt  to 
surpass  all  former  efforts  at  cursing  the 
elder  branch  of  his  family  and  in  par 
ticular  the  two  above-mentioned  gentle 
men — which  was  a  habit  he  had. 

Everybody,  including  young  Calthrop, 
had  supposed  that  there  would  be  a  great 
deal  of  money,  for  although  there  were  no 
entailed  estates  in  the  younger  branch, 
there  had  always  been  more  money  than 
was  needed  to  live  upon  even  extrava 
gantly,  and  the  old  gentleman  just  dead 
had  been  very  successful  in  certain  ope 
rations  in  the  "city"  a  number  of  years 
before,  more  than  doubling  his  patrimony. 


8  JOURNEYS  END 

But  when,  after  the  funeral  in  Brook 
Street,  old  Moxam,  the  family  solicitor,  had 
called  the  sole  heir  into  the  darkened  study 
and  had  read  the  will  and  explained  those 
recent  disasters  in  American  stocks,  the 
boy  began  to  realize  that  he  was  con 
siderably  worse  off  than  the  tailor  in  Bond 
Street  who  always  smirked  and  rubbed 
his  hands  so  obsequiously  when  you  went 
into  the  shop,  or  than  the  bank  clerk 
who  dodged  under  your  horse's  nose  to 
catch  his  penny  'bus. 

"You  will  have,"  said  old  Moxam 
gently,  "just  about  one  hundred  pounds 
a  year — that  is,  if  the  town  house  here 
sells  as  it  should,  and  if  Sir  Chester  takes 
the  place  down  in  Devon."  And  the  old 
man's  voice  shook  just  a  little  in  spite 
of  his  hems  and  haws,  for  he  had  been 
attached  to  the  Calthrops  a  great  many 
years,  and  really  loved  the  boy. 


JOURNEYS  END  9 

"  One  hundred  quid  a  year  !"  said  young 
Clathrop,  ''one  hundred  quid!"  And  he 
looked  about  the  room  in  which  they  were 
sitting.  He  thought,  with  a  gleam  of 
amusement,  of  the  salaries  of  some  of  the 
servants  in  the  house.  He  thought  of  the 
big  place  down  in  Devonshire  and  of  the 
shooting  in  Scotland.  He  thought  also, 
but  with  no  amusement,  of  the  faces  of  the 
Earl  of  Oxbridge  and  the  old  Duke  of 
Strope  when  they  heard  the  news. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do?"  demanded 
young  Calthrop.  "One  hundred  pounds 
won't  pay  for  my  clothes." 

The  solicitor  crossed  his  knees  and 
looked  away. 

"I  see  nothing  for  it  but  to  apply  to 
your  cousins  for  an  annuity,"  he  said. 
Young  Calthrop  dropped  his  hand  rather 
sharply  upon  the  big  oak  table. 

"When  I  have  tried  driving  an  omni- 


io  JOURNEYS   END 

bus,"  said  he,  frowning,  "and  have  failed 
at  that,  and  when  I  have  tried  sweeping 
crossings  and  grown  too  weak,  I  may 
chuck  myself  off  Waterloo  Bridge  or  take 
poison,  but  I  won't  ask  money  or  any 
thing  else  of  either  Oxbridge  or  the  Duke, 
and  you  know  it,  too." 

The  old  man  breathed  a  little  sigh  that 
might  have  been  relief. 

"Why,  then,"  he  cried  cheerfully,  "we'll 
have  to  think  up  something  else.  It  will 
mean  work,  my  boy,  work  of  some  sort, 
but  we'll  arrange  somehow.  Take  a  day 
or  two  for  thinking  it  over  and  then  we'll 
have  another  talk." 

The  young  man,  leaning  over  the  rail, 
face  to  wind,  stirred  uneasily  and  took  a 
very  long  breath  as  his  mind  ran  back  over 
that  "day  or  two"  of  thinking  it  over. 
It  hadn't  been  a  pleasant  day  or  two. 
Moxam  had  been  like  a  father,  he  remem- 


JOURNEYS   END  n 

bered;  good  old  Moxam  had  done  every 
thing  that  a  man  could  do  to  set  him  on 
his  feet,  and  had,  at  the  last,  almost  wept 
when  the  boy  took  his  sudden  decision  to 
chuck  it  all  up  and  go  out  to  America, 
where,  he  had  been  given  to  understand, 
fortunes  lay  about  the  streets,  impeding 
traffic.  He  tried  to  look  back  judiciously 
upon  this  decision,  to  consider  it  with 
perfect  impartiality,  and  he  could  not  see 
that  it  had  been  anything  but  imperative. 
Perhaps  it  was  cowardly  to  cut  and  run, 
but  he  hadn't  the  courage  to  stop  there, 
where  every  one  knew  him,  and  go  into  a 
bank — he  had  an  idea  that  if  you  went 
into  a  bank  they  sent  you  about  on  errands 
with  a  book  chained  to  you — or  become 
a  solicitor's  clerk,  or  anything  else  of  that 
low  nature. 

He  pictured  himself — in  that  day  or 
two — rushing  about  the  "city"  with  that 


12  JOURNEYS   END 

book  chained  to  .him,  meeting  here  and 
there  some  man  who  would  know  him, 
look  back  over  his  shoulder  at  him,  and 
stroll  on,  shaking  his  head  with  a  vague 
sort  of  pity.  He  pictured  himself  taking 
a  stroll  in  the  park  of  a  bank  holiday,  or 
venturing  into  the  church  parade  at  the 
corner  and  receiving  embarrassed  com 
miserating  nods  from  the  women  at  whose 
houses  he  had  been  used  to  lounge  or  dance. 
No,  that  sort  of  a  thing  was  out  of  the 
question.  He  couldn't  bear  that.  He 
would  cut  it  all,  he  had  decided — go  out 
to  America  and  make  a  fortune,  no  matter 
how,  selling  things  over  a  counter  if  need 
be.  He  had  a  friend  out  there  somewhere, 
in  New  York,  he  believed,  a  chap  he  had 
known  at  Cambridge,  son  of  a  certain  very 
well  known  writer  and  Birthday  Knight. 
This  chap  had  quarreled  with  his  governor 
and  cut  away  on  his  own  hand.  He  would 


JOURNEYS  END  13 

write  to  him,  he  determined,  ask  him  to  look 
up  some  sort  of  situation,  and  then — why, 
then  he  would  go  out  there  and  forget 
(till  the  fortune  should  be  made)  that 
there  was  any  such  place  as  England,  any 
such  things  as  Piccadilly  and  Pall  Mall, 
as  clubs  and  restaurants,  as  shooting  in 
the  autumn,  as  gorse  and  heather  and 

may Ah,  well,  never  mind  all  that ! 

And  so  here  he  was  at  last,  with  England 
far  behind  him  in  the  dark  and  his  face 
turned  steadfastly  toward  that  America 
where  lay  the  fortune  he  was  to  make. 
The  other  chap's  letter,  Strothers'  letter 
answering  his  own,  had  not  been  quite  as 
enthusiastic  as  he  could  have  wished,  but 
then  Strothers  was  probably  picking  up 
some  of  that  curious  Yankee  shrewdness 
and  caution  that  the  newspapers  talked 
of  so  much.  Anyhow,  Strothers  or  no 
Strothers,  the  die  was  cast,  and  in  two 


i4  JOURNEYS  END 

days  he  was  to  step  upon  the  soil  of  the 
Western  Hemisphere. 

The  wind  began  to  make  his  teeth 
chatter,  and  he  turned  about  slowly  to 
go  back  into  the  cabin.  A  gust  of  rain 
struck  him  in  the  neck  and  trickled  down 
inside  his  collar,  but  he  squared  his  good 
shoulders  and  drove  back  the  shiver  with 
a  disgusted  growl. 

"Anyhow,"  said  he  philosophically,  "it 
will  be  something  of  a  lark."  But  the 
shoulders  dropped  again.  "  If  only  it 
weren't  for  Molly  !"  said  young  Calthrop. 


CHAPTER  II 


CHAPTER  II 

STROTHERS  was  not  at  the  pier  to  meet 
him.  Instead,  a  letter  was  brought  on 
board  with  the  quarantine  and  customs 
officers,  in  the  bay,  saying  that  Strothers 
had  been  suddenly  sent  off  to  Chicago 
by  the  house  for  which  he  was  working. 
He  hoped  to  return  in  a  fortnight,  but 
meanwhile  recommended  his  lodging-place 
in  West  Twenty-fourth  Street  to  Calthrop. 
He  said  it  was  not  ornamental,  but  very 
central  and  reasonably  cheap.  Calthrop 
had  not  been  in  the  way  of  looking  up 
" reasonably  cheap"  things  of  any  nature, 
but  he  realized  with  a  sigh  that  from  this 
time  onward  everything  must  be  cheap. 

He  looked  up  from  the  letter  to  admire 


i8  JOURNEYS  END 

the  Goddess  of  Liberty  on  her  little  island 
and  to  gaze  at  the  great'  city  which  was 
coming  into  view.  A  slight  mist  hung 
over  the  water  and  hid  the  low-lying 
objects  on  shore.  Above  it  towered  the 
ragged  sky  line  of  New  York,  with  its 
steeples  and  sky-scraping  office  buildings. 
Calthrop  thought  the  effect  rather  fine. 
It  seemed  to  him  exactly  like  Mount 
St.  Michel,  though  of  course  much  bigger, 
and  he  turned  to  say  so  to  one  of  the  men 
near  by,  but  this  gentleman,  a  home 
coming  clergyman,  was  performing  an 
impromptu  and  most  surprising  dance  on 
the  deck,  and  beating  a  fellow-voyager 
over  the  back  with  an  umbrella,  the 
while  he  assured  him  that  there  wasn't 
any  country  like  it  in  the  world.  The 
other  man,  whose  actions  were  equally 
surprising,  said  no,  there  wasn't;  he'd  be 
damned  if  there  was.  Calthrop  moved 


THE    RAGGED    SKY    LINE   OF    NEW  YORK. 


JOURNEYS   END  19 

away  in  some  alarm.  He  had  never  seen 
any  one  act  that  way  before — except  at 
Henley,  and  then  there  was  some  excuse. 

At  the  pier  he  was  still  more  alarmed, 
and  had  at  one  time  serious  thoughts  of 
sending  a  messenger  boy  to  the  office  of 
the  British  Consul,  for  the  customs  officers 
— he  had  fancied  he  was  done  with  them 
on  board — seemed  to  have  taken  him 
for  an  especially  lawless  and  dangerous 
smuggler.  They  asked  him  a  great  many 
absurd  questions,  and  pried  about  in  his 
boxes  as  if  they  suspected  him  of  designs 
upon  the  President  of  the  United  States. 

He  took  a  cab,  a  four-wheeler — the  tariff 
made  him  gasp — "  Eight  shillings  for  a 
two-mile  course  ! "  he  cried.  "  Good  Lord, 
a  breakfast  ought  to  cost  a  guinea  !" — and 
drove  up  to  Twenty-fourth  Street.  At 
the  number  Strothers  had  given  him  all 
the  rooms  were  let,  but  the  maid,  a  negress, 


20  JOURNEYS  END 

recommended  the  house  next  door,  where 
Calthrop  found,  to  his  astonished  delight, 
an  English  woman  installed,  a  relic  of 
Russell  Square,  Bloomsbury,  who  wept  and 
praised  God  at  his  crisp  English  speech, 
and  curtsied  and  said,  " Thank  you,  sir," 
with  a  freedom  lavish  enough  to  have 
made  her  American  lodgers  turn  faint. 

There  was  a  two-pair-back  vacant,  a 
fairly  large  square  room,  with  an  outlook 
upon  two  great  alder  trees  in  the  rear 
area,  that  hid  the  clothes  lines  and  ash 
tins  beneath.  The  woman  declared  that 
the  room  had  never  before  been  let  for 
less  than  six  dollars  a  week — "Twenty- 
four  bob,"  said  Calthrop,  mentally — "but 
you  shall  'ave  it,  sir,  for  five.  That's  a 
sovereign." 

Calthrop  said  at  once  that  he  would 
take  it,  but  asked  where  he  was  to  sleep, 
and  was  greatly  astonished  when  the 


JOURNEYS  END  21 

woman  laid  hold  of  a  high  chest  of  drawers 
with  a  mirror  in  the  centre,  and  pulled 
it  down  upon  the  floor,  transforming  it 
into  a  bed. 

"By  Jove,  you  know!"  he  cried,  "but 
they're  clever,  these  Yankees !  Fancy 
sleeping  in  the  back  side  of  a  chest  of 
drawers,  with  a  mirror  under  you !  Is 
there  anything  that  falls  over  and  makes  a 
tea-table  or  a  bath?"  And  Mrs.  Stubbs 
proved  her  nationality  by  shaking  her 
head  gravely  an4  showing  him  the  little 
wash-room,  with  hot  and  cold  water,  that 
opened  near  the  bed-chiffonier,  and  the 
electric  bell  to  call  a  servant.  She  prom 
ised  to  send  up  a  tea-tray  in  an  hour — 
it  was  four  of  the  afternoon — and  waddled 
heavily  downstairs,  for  she  was  fat,  to 
boast  to  the  advertising  agent  and  his 
yellow-haired  wife  who  occupied  the  par 
lour  floor  of  the  imposing  young  gentle- 


22  JOURNEYS  END 

man  "stright  from  Myfair"  who  was  to 
honour  her  roof. 

The  first  three  days  were  very  trying. 
Young  Calthrop  was  greatly  at  a  loss  as  to 
how  to  proceed.  He  had  so  confidently 
expected  the  assistance  and  advice  of  the 
departed  Strothers  that  he  had  taken  no 
pains  to  find  out  anything  about  the 
character  or  geography  of  New  York. 
Strothers  in  his  hasty  letter  had  mentioned 
two  or  three  mercantile  houses  which  were, 
he  believed,  in  need  of  clerks,  and  one 
political  gentleman  with  an  address  some 
where  east,  who  being  under  certain  obli 
gations  to  Strothers  might  put  Strothers' 
friend  in  the  way  of  something  good.  But 
when  young  Calthrop  called  at  these 
places  and  on  the  political  friend — whom 
he  thought  a  very  curious  person  indeed 
to  be  high  in  the  ranks  of  a  great  municipal 
government — and  further  upon  certain 


JOURNEYS  END  23 

other  business  concerns  whose  advertise 
ments,  "Help  Wanted,"  he  cut  out  of  the 
morning  newspapers,  he  seemed  not  to  be 
treated  with  proper  seriousness. 

The  men,  heads  of  departments  or  even 
proprietors,  took  their  cigars  out  of  their 
mouths  and  stared  at  young  Calthrop's 
smartly  cut  morning  coat  and  at  his 
shining  hat  and  at  the  stick  in  his  hands, 
and  explained,  with  an  amused  look  in  their 
eyes,  that  what  they  wanted,  if  anything 
at  all,  was  just  a  plain  common  man  or 
boy  to  do  clerical  work  at  clerical  wages; 
and  when  Calthrop  protested  that  he  was 
just  a  plain  common  man  who  wanted 
clerical  work  to  do,  they  only  laughed, 
and  shook  their  heads  humourously  at 
him,  which  made  him  turn  red  with 
embarrassment. 

Some  of  them  asked  him,  in  a  perfunctory 
sort  of  way,  what  experience  he  had  had 


24  JOURNEYS   END 

in  their  especial  line  of  work,  and  when  he 
admitted  no  experience  at  all  and  professed 
great  willingness  to  learn,  they  seemed 
annoyed  and  as  if  they  regretted  having 
wasted  a  moment's  time  upon  him. 

All  this  was  tremendously  discouraging ; 
he  had  expected  something  so  different; 
it  made  him  very  sore  and  sick  at  heart 
and,  at  low  moments,  despondent.  This 
was  generally  at  evening  when  he  had 
nothing  to  do,  and  was  reduced  to  sitting 
forlornly  in  his  room  or  walking  up  and 
down  Broadway,  where  the  theatres  shone 
brightly  behind  their  illuminated  signs, 
and  men  stood  in  argumentative  knots 
under  the  names,  in  great  electric  letters, 
of  certain  once-celebrated  prize-fighters 
who  had  retired  to  more  peaceable  and 
profitable  pursuits.  At  such  times  his 
mind  would  be  miserably  full  of  a  certain 
other  life  out  across  the  sea.  He  would 


JOURNEYS  END  25 

think,  striking  the  pavement  savagely 
with  his  stick,  of  what  all  the  people  he 
knew  would  be  doing  at  just  this  hour  of 
the  evening;  of  the  good  quiet  dinners  at 
certain  clubs  which  he  had  been  wont  to 
frequent,  or  at  the  Carleton  or  Prince's, 
and  of  going  on  to  something  later — 
Mr.  Wyndam's  new  piece  in  Leicester 
Square,  or  the  musical  comedy  at  Daly's, 
or  the  Shaftesbury,  or  perhaps  for  a  nice 
comfortable  after-dinner  hour  at  some 
house  where  he  was  informally  welcome, 
before  looking  in  at  a  dance  to  finish  the 
night. 

He  stared  at  the  smart-looking  people 
who  were  stepping  out  of  their  broughams 
into  the  theatres,  or  out  of  clanging 
trams — no,  street  cars;  there  weren't  any 
trams  here.  He  couldn't  understand  how 
women  dressed  like  that  could  bring  them 
selves  to  go  out  in  common  twopence- 


26  JOURNEYS   END 

ha'penny  street  cars,  with  shop-girls  and 
Italian  labourers  and  worse,  and  he  com 
pared  them  rather  indignantly  and  very 
unjustly  with  the  people  going  into  the 
theatres  at  home,  and  made  unpleasant 
remarks  about  them  to  himself,  for  all  of 
which  he  was  later  on  abjectly  ashamed. 

Then  one  morning,  the  fourth  morning, 
he  dropped  in,  with  small  hope,  upon  a 
certain  shop  in  Broadway  where  photo 
graphs  of  celebrities  and  of  theatrical 
people  and  scenic  views  were  sold.  He 
had  seen  an  advertisement  in  the  morning 
paper  to  the  effect  that  a  salesman  was 
desired  here — one  somewhat  familiar  with 
the  business.  Of  course,  Calthrop  had 
never  sold  photographs  of  Mont  Blanc  and 
of  temporarily  celebrated  ballet  girls,  but 
he  had  always  taken  a  great  interest  in 
theatrical  affairs  and  people,  and  knew 
many  of  the  latter  at  home  and  on  the 


JOURNEYS  END  27 

Continent.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
might  be  of  service  in  this  sort  of  thing. 

The  proprietor,  a  very  pleasant  looking 
foreigner,  French  by  name,  stared  rather 
curiously  at  first  at  the  well-dressed  young 
man,  much  as  the  others  had  done,  but 
when  Calthrop  showed  such  a  familiarity 
with  the  names  and  personalities  of 
various  great  people,  theatrical  and  other 
wise,  and  seemed  to  know  so  well  the  big 
photographers  in  London  and  Paris  and 
Vienna  and  Berlin,  he  began  to  look  upon 
him  with  increased  respect.  Then,  too, 
his  appearance  very  probably  spoke  in 
his  favour,  for  he  was  a  very  fine  looking 
boy  and  quite  obviously  a  gentleman. 

The  proprietor  asked  him  what  wages 
he  would  expect,  and  explained  that  he 
had  been  paying  twelve  dollars  a  week 
to  the  salesman  whom  he  had  recently 
discharged,  but  that  in  consideration  of 


28  JOURNEYS   END 

Calthrop's  apparent  qualifications  he  was 
prepared  to  offer  fifteen.  Calthrop  turned 
red  with  relief  and  delight.  Fifteen  dollars 
was  sixty  shillings,  and,  in  his  present 
frame  of  mind,  sixty  shillings  seemed  a 
great  deal  of  money.  He  reflected  that 
the  two-pair-back  in  Twenty-fourth  Street 
cost  but  twenty  shillings.  Thus  he  would 
have  forty  more  for  his  meals  and  other 
things,  not  to  mention  the  hundred  quid 
a  year  that  could  always  be  relied  upon. 
He  made  arrangements  to  begin  work 
the  following  morning,  and  stepped  out 
into  the  hot  sunlight  of  Broadway,  swing 
ing  his  stick  jauntily  and  with  the  proud 
consciousness  of  being  a  wage-earner.  He 
went  into  the  bar  of  the  Fifth  Avenue 
Hotel  and  treated  himself  to  a  brandy 
and  soda  on  the  strength  of  it  all,  and 
very  solemnly  drank  to  himself  and  the 
brilliant  prospect  of  sixty  bob  a  week. 


JOURNEYS   END  29 

The  work  at  the  photograph  shop 
proved  very  easy  and  not  at  all  unpleasant. 
The  photographs  were,  for  the  most  part, 
kept  in  a  sort  of  file  of  small  drawers, 
labeled  outside  with  the  name  of  the 
dramatic  star  or  statesman  or  danseuse 
or  famous  military  man,  as  the  case  might 
be.  A  few  of  the  more  recent  portraits 
were  exhibited  in  showcases  or  in  the 
window.  He  spent  the  first  few  days 
familiarizing  himself  with  the  files,  and 
found  himself  able  to  suggest,  out  of  his 
knowledge  of  the  large  houses  abroad,  a 
great  many  important  additions  to  the 
stock,  till  the  delighted  proprietor  was  on 
the  point  of  raising  his  salary  in  sheer 
gratification.  Being  a  Frenchman,  how 
ever,  he  stopped  just  short  of  doing  so. 

He  made  the  conquest  of  the  heart  of 
the  plain-faced,  red-haired  young  woman 
who  was  his  coworker  on  the  first  day — 


30  JOURNEYS   END 

so  complete  a  conquest  that  the  proprietor 
was  compelled  more  than  once  to  request 
her  to  leave  off  leaning  upon  the  counter 
and  staring  at  young  Calthrop,  in  favour 
of  unpacking  the  last  importation  of  goods. 
And  then  in  looking  over  the  stock  of 
pictures,  Calthrop  came  upon  a  great 
number  of  portraits  of  Her.  It  seemed 
that  she  was  just  finishing  her  first  year 
as  a  star,  and  these  large  pictures  on  the 
big  gray  cards  had  been  made  of  her  in 
the  quaint,  old-fashioned  costumes  that 
she  had  worn  in  the  very  popular  play. 
Calthrop  had  seen  her  in  London  two  or 
three  years  before,  where  she  had  played 
small  parts  in  the  company  of  a  certain 
very  great  English  actor,  and  had  thought 
her  about  the  loveliest  young  woman  he 
had  ever  seen — with  one  exception.  He 
had  read  in  the  papers  of  her  tremendous 
success  as  a  star,  but  his  own  troubles 


JOURNEYS  END  31 

had  put  all  such  things  out  of  his  mind. 
He  looked  up  her  name  on  the  file  and 
took  the  little  drawer  out  upon  the  counter. 
Many  of  the  portraits  had  been  taken  in 
London,  some  of  them  in  the  characters 
that  he  remembered,  and  they  were  all 
very  charming  and  most  beautiful;  but 
he  preferred  the  later  ones,  the  big  ones 
on  the  gray  cards,  taken  when  she  was  a 
star,  in  queer,  flaring  skirts  and  old-time 
coiffure,  and  rosebuds  in  her  soft  hair. 

The  plain  young  woman  saw  him  looking 
at  the  pictures  and  came  over  to  his  side. 

"Isn't  she  the  most  beautiful  thing  you 
ever  saw?"  cried  the  plain  young  woman; 
"and  they  say  she  is  just  as  lovely  as  she 
is  beautiful.  Half  the  men  in  New  York 
would  like  to  die  for  her,  though  it  would 
be  so  much  more  to  the  point  if  they'd  live 
for  her.  She's  only  twenty-one  years  old, 
too !  Think  of  it !  Oh,  it  must  be  nice 


32  JOURNEYS   END 

to  be  beautiful !"  she  said  with  a  little 
sigh. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Calthrop,  looking  into 
the  eyes  of  the  young  girl  in  the  picture; 
"it  must  be  nice  to  be  as  beautiful  as  that." 

"I  do  hope,"  continued  the  young 
woman  with  the  red  hair,  "that  she'll 
have  a  good  play  for  next  year.  Not  that 
'The  Horse  Guards'  isn't  a  good  play;  it 
is,  of  course.  It's  one  of  the  prettiest, 
funniest  little  plays  I  ever  saw;  but — • 
well,  Miss  Berkeley  can  do  so  much  more  ! 
She  hasn't  half  a  chance  in  'The  Horse 
Guards.'  Ah,"  cried  the  plain  young 
woman,  "why  doesn't  some  one  write  a 
play  for  her  who  isn't  just  a  clever  drama 
tist?  Why  doesn't  some  one  who  loves 
her,  who  feels  her  capabilities  for  sweet 
ness  and  for  strength,  write  her  a  play; 
with  no  one  else  in  mind  but  her,  with 
just  her  face  to  keep  up  his  inspiration? 


JOURNEYS   END  33 

I'm  not  sure,  but  I  think  she  could  be 
great  then." 

Young  Mr.  Calthrop  smiled  gently  down 
into  the  beautiful  face  on  the  big  gray 
card,  and  the  face  seemed  to  him  to  smile 
in  return,  very  slightly,  rather  question- 
ingly. 

"Now,  I—  "  said  he  with  a  sort  of  grave 
mockery,  "I  might  write  her  a  play.  I 
used  always  to  be  writing  plays  in  my 
'varsi — when  I  was  a  youngster,  and  I 
think  I'm  rapidly  falling  in  love  with  her, 
too,  or  at  least  with  this  picture  of  her — 
the  one  sitting  down,  in  the  white  dress 
and  the  rosebuds,  and  just  beginning  to 
smile  at  you.  Yes,  I  think  I  shall  write 
a  play  for  her." 

The  plain  young  woman  with  the  red 
hair  laughed  appreciatively  and  moved 
away  to  attend  to  a  customer,  but  young 
Calthrop  wrapped  something  carefully  in 


34  JOURNEYS  END 

white  paper  and  made  out  a  sale  cheque 
for  one  dollar  and  a  half,  which  was  cost 
price  for  the  large  pictures  of  Miss  Evelyn 
Berkeley — those  on  the  gray  cards. 

And  that  evening  he  went  to  see  "The 
Horse  Guards"  at  the  Lyric  Theatre. 


CHAPTER  III 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  heavy-eyed  young  man  who  lived 
in  the  room  above  knocked  at  Calthrop's 
half-opened  door  and  said  "May  I  come 
in?  I  wanted  to  borrow  a  match,"  he 
explained  further  as  he  entered.  "The 
old  girl's  pretty  close  on  matches" — 
Calthrop  judged  the  "old  girl"  to  be  the 
relic,  of  Bloomsbury. 

"Seems  like  such  near  neighbours  ought 
to  get  acquainted,  anyway,"  pursued  the 
visitor.  "Say,  these  wax  matches  are  all 
right,  ain't  they?  London  make?" 

"Yes,"  said  young  Calthrop;  "Bryant 
May's  vestas.  I  don't  fancy  wooden 
matches;  they  go  out."' 

The  young  man  with  the  heavy  eyes 
37 


38  JOURNEYS  END 

tilted  his  very  bad  cigar  at  an  aggressive 
angle  in  one  corner  of  his  mouth  and 
strolled  about  the  room  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  He  noted  with  a  quick 
eye  the  row  of  photographs  in  gold  frames 
along  the  mantel,  photographs  of  a  sort 
of  people  with  which  he  had  never  come 
in  contact.  He  called  them  "swells."  He 
noted  the  silver  brushes  and  bottles  and 
flasks  on  the  dressing-stand  and  the 
various  little  articles  of  luxury  about  the 
room  that  fitted  so  oddly  into  a  Twenty- 
fourth  Street  lodging-house. 

He  dropped  into  the  rocking-chair 
that  the  Englishman  had  pushed  out  for 
him,  and  carefully  adjusted  the  knees  of 
his  trousers,  a  proceeding  which  young 
Calthrop  witnessed  with  the  greatest 
interest. 

"You  don't  happen  to  be  in  the  profes 
sional  line?"  said  he. 


JOURNEYS  END  39 

"Professional?" inquired Calthrop.  ''Oh, 
I  see,  theatrical.  No,  I  am  not  an  actor. 
I  sell  photographs  of  them,  however,  in  a 
shop  over  on  Broadway. " 

The  visitor  gasped  slightly  and  ventured 
another  glance  at  the  photographs  and 
silver  toilet  articles. 

1  'Oh — ah,  yes,"  said  he.  "Yes,  of  course. 
Somehow  I  had  an  idea  that  you  were  an 
actor.  You  look  like  one." 

"Oh,"  said  young  Calthrop. 

"I'm  with  Home  down  at  the  Four 
teenth  Street,"  volunteered  the  American. 
"Small  part,"  he  added  loftily,  "but  I 
threw  over  a  fat  thing  uptown.  They 
didn't  treat  me  well,  tried  to  do  me,  but 
I  wouldn't  stand  for  it.  Professional 
jealousy,"  he  sighed,  shaking  his  head. 
"Professional  jealousy  is  che  devil!" 
His  tone  would  seem  to  indicate  that  he 
had  suffered  much  and  deeply  therefrom. 


40  JOURNEYS   END 

"What  do  you  think,"  he  demanded 
presently,  "of  the  New  York  stage  ?" 

"Well,  you  know,  I've  not  seen  any 
thing  but  The  Horse  Guards,'  "  said 
Calthrop,  "but  I  think  that  was  very 
jolly.  Miss  Berkeley's  worth  going  a  long 
way  to  see,  isn't  she  ?" 

"Evelyn  Berkeley,"  said  the  visitor 
impressively,  "is  the  best — you  hear  me? 
the  best !  Why,  man,  she's  nothing  but 
a  kid  yet,  only  twenty  or  twenty-one, 
but  she  has  possibilities  that  no  one  can 
see  the  end  of.  She's  a  beauty,  she  was 
pretty  nearly  born  on  the  stage — and  that 
signifies  a  lot — and  further  than  that, 
she's  got  a  soul.  There's  no  end  to  what 
that  young  woman  will  be  able  to  do — if 
she  don't  marry  or  lose  her  head  or  some 
such  foolishness.  The  papers  are  always 
engaging  her  to  somebody,  you  know. 
Now,  what  Evelyn  Berkeley  wants  is 


JOURNEYS  END  41 

a  play,  Calthrop.  Oh,  I'm  not  saying 
that  'The  Horse  Guards'  isn't  well  enough, 
it's  a  good  play,  a  pretty  one  and  a  dainty 
one.  It's  had  a  great  run,  and  a  good  man 
wrote  it,  but  it's  not  up  to  her,  not  by  a 
darned  sight !  She's  good  for  something 
bigger.  If  I  knew  a  man  who  could  write 
a  good  play,  do  you  know  what  I'd  say  to 
him?  I'd  say,  'Jones,  you  sit  down  at 
your  desk  and  you  stick  up  in  front  of  you 
one  of  these  big  'Horse  Guards'  pictures 
of  Evelyn  Berkeley,  and  you  look  at  it  till 
you  don't  see  anything  else  and  don't 
think  of  anything  else,  and  then  you 
write  a  play  around  that  girl !  You  write 
the  heart  and  soul  straight  out  of  you  and 
it'll  make  both  you  and  her  great !'  That's 
what  I'd  say  to  him.  That's  what  Evelyn 
Berkeley  needs — a  play  written  up  to  her. 
Talk  about  your  Mary  Andersons !  You 
wait  ten  years  and  see  what  becomes  of 


42  JOURNEYS  END 

Evelyn  Berkeley  if  she  can  get  the  vehicle 
to  carry  her  where  she  belongs  !" 

Young  Calthrop  thought  of  the  plain, 
red-haired  young  woman  in  the  photo 
graph  shop. 

1  'I'd  jolly  well  like  to  be  the  chap  to  do 
it,"  said  he. 

"Of  course  you  would !"  the  American 
said;  "so  would  I,  and  so  would  many 
another  poor  devil,  but  we  can't  do 
it.  Somebody  will,  though;  you  wait 
and  see.  Ah,  well,  I  must  be  going  on. 
I've  a  date  to  keep.  Come  up  and  see 
me  sometime.  I'm  on  the  floor  above. 
And,  I  say,  let  me  fix  you  out  with  a  pass 
to  our  piece  some  night;  it's  not  a  bad 
show.  So  long !  See  you  again."  And 
he  stamped  noisily  out  and  up  the  stairs. 

"Queer  lot,  that  chap !"  said  Calthrop, 
lighting  his  pipe  afresh.  "Now,  at  home, 
I'd  pick  him  for  a  shocking  bounder,  but 


JOURNEYS  END  43 

you  can't  tell  about  these  Americans, 
they're  so  peculiar." 

But  the  "  queer  lot"  up  in  his  three-pair- 
back  was  knotting  a  cravat  of  blazing  red, 
and  saying  to  himself  that  he  must  manage 
to  see  a  good  deal  of  that  young  English 
man  for  the  sake  of  the  accent.  He  had 
been  struggling  for  some  months  now, 
with  weird  results,  to  acquire  the  English 
accent  employed  by  his  star,  but  he  had 
certain  well-founded  suspicions  that  the 
star's  speech  was  not  quite  the  real  thing. 
Indeed,  if  the  truth  were  told,  it  was,  if 
suggestive  of  anything  transatlantic, 
faintly  redolent  of  Whitechapel  and  the 
old  Kent  Road. 

Calthrop  finished  with  the  great  heap 
of  illustrated  Sunday  newspapers  which 
had  been  affording  him  a  new  and 
unbounded  delight,  and  got  into  a  frock 
coat  for  a  stroll.  He  went  over  through 


44  JOURNEYS  END 

Twenty-fourth  Street  to  Madison  Square, 
and  being  by  this  time  fairly  well  grounded 
in  the  city's  geography,  turned  up  the 
Avenue. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  end  of  people  out, 
though  it  was  nearly  the  last  of  June  and 
a  warm  day,  and  they  were  very  interest 
ing  people.  Calthrop  had  never  seen  so 
many  really  beautiful  women  together  in 
all  his  life — all  sorts  of  women,  for  they 
were  obviously  of  many  classes.  It  seemed 
as  if  there  must  be  some  sort  of  compe 
tition  in  progress  and  as  if  Fifth  Avenue 
were  the  ring.  He  found  himself  looking 
about  humourously  for  the  judges'  stand. 

They  dressed  well,  too,  he  noted  approv 
ingly,  rather  more  like  French  women  than 
English,  and  they  all  seemed  to  have 
beautiful  figures.  "I  think  I'm  glad  I 
came,"  said  young  Calthrop,  with  a  pleased 
little  laugh. 


CALTHROP    SEES    THE    CHURCH    PARADE    ON    FIFTH    AVENUE. 


JOURNEYS  END  45 

He  noticed  that  as  he  went  farther  out 
the  Avenue  the  quality  of  the  crowd 
improved.  There  were  fewer  ladies  who 
favoured  him  with  sidelong  glances  and 
who  held  their  skirts  too  tightly  about 
them ;  but  more  of  the  sort  to  remind  him 
of  "Church  Parade"  at  home,  who  held 
their  chins  well  up  in  the  air  and  talked 
to  their  companions  in  sweet,  high  voices 
and  had  no  eyes  for  the  passersby. 

But  it  was  the  men  who  surprised  him 
most.  They  fitted  so  oddly  into  this 
throng  of  lovely  and  wonderfully  groomed 
women.  They  seemed  undersized  for  the 
most  part,  and  very  pale  and  anaemic. 
They  walked  badly,  as  if  not  used  to 
exercise,  and  their  clothes  were  dreadful, 
Calthrop  thought.  Some  of  them,  though 
comparatively  few,  were  in  the  conven 
tional  frock  coat  and  "topper,"  but  such 
coats  !  and  upon  such  figures  !  And  most 


46  JOURNEYS   END 

of  them  were  in  the  lounge  jacket  and 
bowler  hat  or  straw-boater  that  Calthorp 
had  been  taught  to  believe  were  designed 
for  wear  in  the  country  or  while  traveling. 
He  didn't  care  at  all  for  the  men. 

They  made  him  uncomfortable,  too,  by 
staring  at  him — both  the  men  and  the 
women — as  if  he  were  something  strange 
and  unusual.  He  could  tell  by  the  sound 
of  their  footsteps  upon  the  stone  pave 
ment  that  many  of  them  turned  to  look 
back  after  they  had  passed.  Of  course 
all  this  annoyed  him  greatly,  and  reduced 
him  to  fumbling  nervously  at  his  cravat 
to  see  if  that  could  be  out  of  place,  and 
to  glancing  covertly  at  his  boots,  and  even 
to  taking  off  his  hat  and  inspecting  its 
unblemished  surface. 

"Now,  what  the  deuce  is  the  matter 
with  me ?"  he  wondered.  "I  can't  see  that 
any  thing's  out  of  the  way."  It  did  not 


JOURNEYS   END  47 

occur  to  him  that  the  people's  stares 
might  be  of  admiration  for  his  extremely 
handsome  face  and  good  figure,  and,  per 
haps,  by  curiosity  at  his  very  smartly  made 
and  unmistakably  English  coat. 

He  walked  far  out  the  Avenue,  past  the 
Cathedral  of  St.  Patrick  and  across  the 
plaza  at  Fifty-ninth  Street,  and  along  the 
edge  of  the  Park,  where  the  character  of 
the  strolling  throng  altered  and  became 
middle-class  again,  and  turned  into  the 
Park  at  Eighty-third  Street  to  watch  the 
driving,  over  which  he  shook  his  head 
sadly. 

"They've  jolly  good  horses,"  said  he, 
"and  very  fairly  smart  carriages,  too — 
though  where  the  fun  comes  in  in  driving 
about  shut  in  a  brougham  I  don't  quite 
see;  but,  bless  you,  they  can't  drive." 

He  spoke  to  the  red-haired  young 
woman  about  it  the  next  morning,  but 


48  JOURNEYS  END 

the  red-haired  young  woman  confessed  to 
knowing  very  little  about  horses  or  their 
government  when  in  motion.  She  said 
that  trolley  cars  were  more  in  her  line. 


CHAPTER   IV 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  next  fortnight  passed  very  unevent 
fully.  Strothers  was  still  in  Chicago,  and, 
there  seemed  reason  to  believe,  must  be 
there  till  autumn.  Carter,  the  actor  of 
the  three-pair-back,  had  left  town  with  the 
closing  of  his  star's  season  and  was  filling 
an  engagement  somewhere  in  the  far  West 
with  a  summer  stock  company. 

The  weather  had  turned  very  hot,  hotter 
than  Calthrop  had  ever  experienced,  and 
he  suffered  considerably  from  it.  He  was 
a  bit  worried,  too,  over  the  fear  that  he 
might  be  turned  adrift  during  the  dull 
season,  for  patronage  at  the  photograph 
shop  had  markedly  fallen  off  with  the  clos 
ing  of  the  theatrical  season  and  the  general 
exodus  to  the  seashore  and  mountains. 


52  JOURNEYS   END 

Seashore  and  mountains !  Calthrop 
heard  the  customers  in  the  shop  talking 
together  of  them,  of  where  they  meant  to 
go  and  how  long  stay,  and  how  fine  the 
surf  was  at  this  place  or  that,  and  how 
much  the  pure  air  had  done  for  some  one's 
malaria  the  year  before. 

Then  Calthrop' s  mind  would  go  all 
at  a  jump  off  to  Dieppe  or  Ostend  or 
Scheveningen,  where  the  water  was  cold 
and  the  hotels  big  and  gay  and  full  of 
music — to  Zermatt  or  Chamounix  or 
Grindelwald  or  St.  Moritz,  where  there  was 
ice  and  snow  uplift  to  blue  skies,  crevassed 
glaciers  and  dizzy  cornices — and  he  would 
catch  himself  up  sharply  and  blink  an 
instant,  and  tell  himself  very  severely  just 
what  a  fool  he  was,  and  pull  down  another 
file  of  photographs  for  some  one  to  dis 
arrange. 

He  grew  very  well  acquainted  in  these 


JOURNEYS  END  53 

long  days  with  the  plain,  red-haired  young 
woman,  and  became  quite  fond  of  her  in 
a  nice,  friendly  sort  of  way.  She  was  a 
simple-minded  soul,  full  of  a  queer,  quaint 
philosophy,  full  of  a  quiet  cheerfulness 
and  contentment  with  her  lot  that  was 
very  good  for  Calthrop  at  just  this  stage. 
She  told  him  much  of  her  home  and  her 
two  small  brothers,  twins,  who  were  such 
jolly  little  housekeepers  and  took  such 
care  of  the  bedridden  mother;  of  the 
good  times  they  had  on  a  Sunday  or  a 
holiday,  all  four  together,  and  of  their 
hopes  for  a  little  home  in  the  country, 
up  in  Connecticut,  when  some  tiresome 
litigation  over  an  uncle's  will  should  be 
past  and  they  had  come  to  their  own. 

And  with  all  this  she  never  asked  nor 
seemed  to  expect  confidences  from  young 
Calthrop,  for  which  he  was  so  grateful  that 
he  was  much  nicer  to  her  than  he  otherwise 


54  JOURNEYS  END 

would  have  been,  saved  her  little  bits  of 
work,  and  even  took  her,  of  an  evening  now 
and  then,  to  one  of  the  summer  theatres, 
where  there  was  cheap  light  opera  or 
vaudeville  and  where  one  had  no  need  to 
dress.  He  could  not  have  done  this  if  she 
had  been  a  pretty  girl  or  young,  and  he 
took  it  as  almost  a  personal  favour  on  her 
part  that  she  had  red  hair  and  was  plain 
and  nearly  thirty.  The  only  thing  that 
disturbed  him  was  a  curious  way  she  had 
fallen  into  of  late  of  watching  him  when 
she  thought  his  attention  was  directed  else 
where,  and  of  looking  into  his  eyes  some 
times  when  she  was  close  beside  him.  He 
was  the  least  bit  uneasy  over  it,  for  he 
could  not  make  it  out.  He  was  almost  an 
unbelievably  modest  chap,  and  he  thought 
that  she  disapproved  of  him  for  some 
hidden  reason. 

Then  one  morning,  when  the  shop  was 


"  SHE     WAS     COMIXG    IN." 


JOURNEYS   END  55 

quite  empty  of  customers,  and  Calthrop 
was  leaning  over  the  showcase  absorbed 
in  the  London  column  of  a  newspaper, 
there  was  a  sharp  little  "Oh-h-h!  Look! 
Look  !"  from  the  red-haired  young  woman. 
Calthrop  looked  up  quickly  and  the  news 
paper  rustled  unnoticed  to  the  floor  under 
his  feet,  for  She  was  coming  in  at  the  door 
with  a  friend,  a  well-known  young  English 
actress,  who  had  been  during  the  season 
supporting  a  certain  very  great  actor- 
manager  on  his  American  tour.  The 
hansom  cab  in  which  the  two  had  come 
stood  waiting  at  the  curb.  She  wanted  a 
certain  photograph  of  Sir  Henry  Irving  in 
the  character  of  Richard  III.,  and  Calthrop 
turned  to  take  down  the  file  with  a  queer 
weakness  in  his  arms  and  a  most  embar 
rassing  flush  upon  his  face. 

"But    why?"    he    stormed    inwardly. 
"  For  the  Lord's  sake,  why?    She  isn't  any- 


56  JOURNEYS  END 

i 
thing  to  you,  you  ass !    You've  seen  Tier 

at  a  distance  several  times  and  you've 
heard  a  lot  of — of  discussion  about  her. 
That's  nothing  to  have  a  fit  over.  My 
aunt,  what  a  beauty  !  Oh,  buck  up ;  don't 
be  an  ass !"  and  he  frowned  quite  porten 
tously  as  he  spread  out  the  photographs 
on  the  glass  showcase. 

His  heart  was  pounding,  nevertheless. 
He  noted  that  her  voice,  at  an  ordinary 
conversational  pitch,  was  even  sweeter  and 
softer  and  more  curiously  caressing  than 
on  the  stage.  And  her  hair  was  more 
bronzed.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  red 
dish  copper  in  it.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
faint,  elusive  scent  from  the  hair  as  she 
leaned  over  the  showcase  that  brought 
the  pounding  to  young  Calthrop's  heart. 
More  likely  it  was  the  eyes,  though. 

"Oh,  don't  be  an  ass!"  begged  young 
Calthrop  of  himself — inwardly.  He  felt 


"  HALF  A  NOTION  THAT  THEY  HAD  MET  BEFORE. 


JOURNEYS  END  57 

very  queer;  possibly  he  was  going  to  be 
ill.  Certainly  he  had  never  felt  quite  this 
way  before.  No  other  woman  had  ever 
made  his  heart  pound  by  merely  being  near 
him — no  other,  that  is,  with  one  exception. 

He  caught  the  young  English  woman 
looking  at  him  very  curiously  now  and 
then,  as  if  she  had  half  a  notion  that  they 
had  met  before,  but  Calthrop  only  glanced 
politely  past  her  and  tried  to  appear  quite 
the  ordinary  salesman  in  discharge  of  his 
duties,  and  not  at  all  the  young  man 
who  had  sat  beside  her  at  dinner  on  two 
separate  occasions  in  London. 

They  stopped  a  cruelly  short  time.  She 
selected  the  photograph  she  wanted  almost 
immediately  and  glanced  with  a  depreca 
tory  little  smile  at  the  large  and  conspicu 
ously  exposed  pictures  of  herself,  while 
Calthrop  wrapped  her  purchase  and  made 
the  change.  Then  she  said  "  Thank  you  !" 


58  JOURNEYS  END 

and  gave  him  a  little  nod,  and  they  went 
out  to  their  cab. 

Young  Calthrop  watched  them  hungrily 
through  the  window,  and  wondered  what 
they  were  talking  about  there  on  the  curb, 
and  wondered,  too,  how  it  would  seem  to 
get  into  a  hansom  with  Her  and  go  bowling 
smoothly  out  the  Avenue  and  into  the 
Park  and  far  away  from  everything  and 
everybody — very  far  away.  He  stood  for 
a  time  considering  this,  and  had  changed 
the  hansom  to  a  victoria  and  Central  Park 
to  St.  James  or  Hyde  Park,  when  he  was 
brought  back  to  earth  and  sixty  bob  a 
week  by  the  plain  young  woman  with  the 
red  hair. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Evelyn  Berkeley  was 
remarking  to  her  companion,  as  the 
hansom  paused  in  a  momentary  block 
of  traffic : 

"  What  a  tremendously  handsome  young 


JOURNEYS  END  59 

Englishman  that  was  in  the  shop  !  He 
looked  rather  out  of  his  class,  somehow." 

"What?  Yes,  yes!"  said  the  other 
young  woman  absently.  "Yes,  he  has 
reminded  me  very  much  of  a  man  I  met 
once  or  twice  in  London  last  year.  I've 
forgotten  where;  of  course  it  wasn't  the 
same  man.  My  man  was  quite  smart,  and 

rather  importantly  connected Oh,  I 

want  to  stop  in  at  Louise's." 

It  was  during  these  lonely  evenings 
when,  tired  of  tramping  up  and  down 
Broadway  and  of  loafing  about  in  hotel 
corridors,  Calthrop  was  reduced  to  sitting 
in  the  Twenty-fourth  Street  two-pair-back, 
his  hands  in  his  lap,  and  all  sorts  of  sweet 
and  familiar  but  forbidden  memories 
knocking  at  his  brain  for  entrance,  that  the 
notion  of  trying  to  write  a  play  first  began 
to  possess  him.  It  was  born  of  sheer  des 
peration  in  an  idleness  which  he  felt  sure 


60  JOURNEYS  END 

must  drive  him  mad  unless  something 
could  be  found  to  lighten  its  burden. 

"Though  I'm  in  no  way  sure  that  I'm 
not  mad  already,"  said  he,  shaking  his 
head,  "even  to  conceive  such  a  piece  of 
rot.  /  write  a  play !  A  real  play  that 
people  would  go  to  see  and  say  nice  things 
about?  /  write  a  play  in  the  face  of  all 
the  trained  experts  that  are  failing  at  it 
every  day  ? "  He  smiled  up  into  the  face  of 
Miss  Evelyn  Berkeley  where  she  sat  over 
his  little  writing-table,  and  Miss  Evelyn 
Berkeley  seemed  to  smile  back,  not  deri 
sively,  not  in  scorn  of  his  presumption, 
but  rather  encouragingly,  he  thought.  At 
least,  it  looked  an  encouraging  smile 
through  the  wreaths  of  smoke  that  rose 
from  young  Calthrop's  pipe. 

"And  yet,  do  you  know  ? "  said  Calthrop 
confidentially,  dragging  his  chair  nearer, 
"do  you  know  I've  written  better  plays 


JOURNEYS   END  61 

than  that  thing  I  went  to  see  last  night — 
lots  better  plays,  years  ago  in  Cambridge." 
He  waved  his  hand  in  modest  depreca 
tion.  He  didn't  want  to  seem  conceited. 
"Of  course,"  said  he,  "they  were  poor 
enough  stuff.  I  know  that,  but  I  insist 
they  were  better  than  some  of  the  things 
people  go  to  see  here." 

He  shook  his  head  once  more  and  waved 
an  eloquent  pipe. 

"But  moonshine,  moonshine,  my  lady," 
he  cried.  "Stop  looking  at  me  with  that 
little  encouraging  smile.  Stop  telling  me 
to  be  a  fool  and  try  to  do  what's  beyond 
me.  Leave  me  to  my  sixty  bob  a  week 
and  my  photographs  of  glaciers  and  ballet 
girls!" 

The  pipe  went  out,  neglected,  and 
young  Calthrop  sat,  chin  in  hands,  staring 
up  into  the  beautiful  face  of  Miss  Evelyn 
Berkeley. 


62  JOURNEYS   END 

" '  I'd  say  to  him, '"  he  quoted  presently, 
"'Jones,  you  sit  down  at  your  desk  and 
you  stick  up  in  front  of  you  one  of  those 
big '  'Horse  Guards' '  pictures — and  you  look 
at  it  until  you  don't  see  anything  else  and 
don't  think  of  anything  else,  and  then  you 
write  a  play  around  that  girl ! — you  write 
the  heart  and  soul  straight  out  of  you  and 
it'll  make  both  you  and  her  great ! — you 
write  the  heart  and  soul  straight  out  of 
you!'  Yes,  my  lady,  that's  how  it  must 
be  done,  heart  and  soul — and  your  big 
eyes  looking  down  at  it  always.  '  Write  it 
around  that  girl!'  Yes;  that's  true,  too. 
It  must  be  your  sort  of  play — no  prob 
lems,  my  lady;  no  flirting  about  with 
the  Seventh  Commandment;  no  post- 
matrimonial  intrigues ;  but  a  clean,  sweet, 
beautiful  play  of  clean,  sweet,  beautiful 
love,  my  queen ;  the  ways  of  a  man  with  a 
maid  and  surtout;  the  ways  of  a  maid  with 


JOURNEYS   END  63 

a  man!  It  must  smell  like  a  flower,  our 
play.  People  must  go  home  from  it  glad 
they're  alive,  glad  that  there's  honest  love 
in  the  world,  and  that  not  everything  is  a 
cynic's  sneer." 

He  rose  from  the  little  table  and 
tramped  up  and  down  the  room,  nodding 
his  head  excitedly  and  drawing  with  vigour 
at  the  cold,  dead  pipe. 

"  That's  the  sort  of  play  it  must  be,"  he 
cried  again.  "There's  been  enough  cyni 
cism  and  bloodshed  and  vice.  We'll  give 
them  a  play,  my  lady,  that  shall  be  like  a 
walk  through  rose-gardens  !  We'll  make 
them  laugh  and  we'll  make  them  cry  all  in 
the  same  moment,  but  at  the  last  we'll  send 
them  home  with  a  song  in  their  hearts  and 
their  minds  going  back  to  the  love-making 
they  did  when  they  were  young  and  inno 
cent.  We'll  make  them  dream  of  their 
first  kiss — that's  the  thing,  by  Jove ! — 


64  JOURNEYS   END 

1  Write  it  around  that  girl/  Ah,  I'll  write 
it  around  you !  And  I'll  see  nothing  and 
think  nothing,  when  I  write  it,  but  you 
and  you  and  you !" 

His  smile  widened  as  he  heard  the 
applause  of  those  people  who  were  to  be 
brought  back  to  youth  and  innocence 
and  first  kisses.  His  head  went  up  very 
bravely  and  his  step  became  a  sort  of 
triumphal  march  up  and  down  the  narrow 
confines  of  the  two-pair-back. 

A  lifted  elbow  swept  the  mantelshelf 
arid  knocked  over  one  of  the  gold-framed 
photographs  there,  so  that  it  fell  with  a 
little  crash.  Calthrop  halted  suddenly 
and  caught  up  the  picture  to  see  if  the 
glass  had  been  broken,  and  a  sudden  great 
change  came  over  his  face. 

" Why— why,  Molly!"  he  cried  softly. 
"Why— Molly!" 

The  photograph  was  of  a  very  lovely 


JOURNEYS  END  65 

young  girl.  She  would  be  English,  cer 
tainly,  with  her  straight  nose  and  high 
brows  and  short  Greek  mouth,  and  the 
waving  hair  caught  in  a  great  knot  at  the 
back  of  her  neck.  Oh,  English,  by  all 
means !  She  would  be  a  young  girl,  too, 
not  long  out  of  the  schoolroom  probably, 
but  just  on  the  verge  of  a  very  extra 
ordinary  beauty.  Her  eyes  were  won 
derful. 

"Molly— Molly !"  said  Calthrop,  with  a 
little  catch  in  his  breath.  All  the  fever 
and  glow  of  ambition  were  gone,  all  the 
intoxication  of  success  that  had  seemed, 
under  the  smile  of  those  other  eyes,  so 
little  a  way  ahead.  Green  fields  and  the 
smell  of  running  water — scent  of  box  and 
gorse  and  may !  the  sweep  of  hills  and 
covert  that  was  dear  from  childhood ! 
All  the  sights  and  sounds  and  smells  that 
were  inalienably  home,  home!  It  came 


66  JOURNEYS  END 

over  him  with  an  irresistible  rush  that 
left  him  shaking — and  this  new  life  had 
dropped  away. 

"Molly!"  whispered  young  Calthrop, 
with  the  picture  against  his  hot  cheek. 

Ah,  the  paddock  where  the  sheep 
grazed,  down  below  the  yew  walk !  and 
the  river  beyond,  with  its  willows  along 
the  bank — the  river,  where  he  and  Molly 
paddled  about  in  the  canoe  or  poled  up 
and  down  in  a  punt  through  the  reeds  and 
lily  pads,  with  the  gray  turrets  of  Hart- 
well  Towers,  Molly's  home,  showing  above 
the  trees  on  the  farther  hill.  And  the 
good  old  governor,  dear  old  governor ! 
marching  up  and  down  the  yew  walk 
with  his  stick,  and  grinning  meaningly 
when  he  saw  the  boy  and  Molly 
together ! 

Young  Calthrop  set  the  picture  down 
upon  the  mantel  quickly  and  threw  him- 


ALL  THE  SIGHTS  AND 
SOUNDS  AND  SMELLS 
THAT  WERE  INALIEN 
ABLY  HOME  !" 


JOURNEYS   END  67 

self  into  the  chair  before  the  little  writing- 
table  with  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  cried  fiercely,  "that's 
over  and  done  with,  all  of  it.  Good  God  ! 
can't  you  forget  it,  man  ?  I  tell  you  that 
chap  is  dead,  the  chap  who  lived  at  the 
Abbey  and  fished  and  rode  to  hounds,  and 
shot,  and  played  with — with  Molly  !  He 
died  when  the  smash  came.  I  tell  you !" 
groaned  young  Calthrop,  with  his  head 
between  his  straining  fists.  "I  tell  you, 
I'm  not  that  chap ;  I  don't  know  anything 
about  him.  I  sell  photographs  over  a 
counter  at  sixty  bob  a  week  !" 

He  raised  a  twitching  face  to  the  gentle 
smile  of  Miss  Evelyn  Berkeley.  "My 
lady,"  he  cried,  "oh,  my  lady,  help  me  to 
forget  all  those  things  !  I  mustn't  remem 
ber  them;  I  mustn't.  I'm  going  to  write 
you  a  play,  a  beautiful,  beautiful  play ! 
How  can  I  do  it  if  I'm  smelling  may  and 


68  JOURNEYS  END 

gorse,  and  if  I'm  remembering  how  the 
trout  jump  at  evening  and  how  the  sun 
sets  behind  Hartwell  Towers !"  And  he 
dropped  his  head  into  his  hands  once 
more  and  thought  how  Molly  used  to  sing 
"Love's  old  sweet  song." 


CHAPTER  V 


CHAPTER  V 

"You  see  just  how  it  is,"  said  the  pro 
prietor  regretfully  to  the  red-haired  young 
woman;  "I'd  like  to  keep  you  both  on, 
but  there's  not  business  enough  to  occupy 
one,  to  say  nothing  of  the  three  of  us.  One 
of  you  I  shall  have  to  let  go  till  September. 
You — you  weren't  thinking  of  taking  a 
vacation  anyhow?"  he  inquired. 

The  plain  young  woman  glanced  at 
Calthrop,  who  was  rearranging  the  display 
of  photographs  in  the  window,  out  of 
hearing. 

"Why— why,  no,"  she  said;  "that  is,  I 
hadn't  thought  much  about  it."  But  just 
now  she  did  some  very  rapid  thinking 
about  what  the  loss  of  two  months'  wages 


72  JOURNEYS  END 

would  mean  to  the  mother  and  the  two 
little  chaps. 

"Of  course,"  continued  the  proprietor, 
"you  have  been  with  me  longer  than 
Calthrop,  and  in  case  you  hadn't  been 
meaning  to  take  a — a  rest  anyhow,"  and  he 
paused  suggestively,  "I  suppose  I  should 
have  to  drop  him.  Calthrop  could  be  of 
great  service  getting  that  August  con 
signment  from  London,  though." 

"Will  you  let  me  think  it  over  during 
the  day?"  asked  the  red-haired  young 
woman,  her  eyes  still  upon  Mr.  Calthrop. 

"Why,  yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  he; 
"think  it  over  and  let  me  know  to-night 
or  to-morrow." 

Young  Calthrop  came  back  from  the 
window  scrubbing  at  his  dusty  hands  with 
a  handkerchief  and  smiling  amusedly. 

"I've  put  Oom  Paul  Kruger  between 
the  Mayor  of  New  York  and  the  august 


JOURNEYS  END  73 

head  of  Tammany  Hall !"  said  he.  "And 
I  think  he  looks  very  nice  there.  I  have 
flanked  them  with  some  very,  very  French 
actresses  in  Liberty  scarves,  and  I've 
put  the  Florodora  Sextette  over  them.  I 
call  that  a  strikingly  artistic  ensemble 
myself.  You  should  go  outside  and  look 
at  it." 

The  red-haired  young  woman  shook  her 
head. 

"No,  I'll  take  your  word  for  it,"  said 
she.  "It's  hot  outside."  She  tapped 
absently  upon  the  showcase  with  her 
fingers  and  then  looked  up  into  Calthrop's 
eyes. 

"How  do  you  stand  the  heat?"  she 
asked.  "It  must  be  worse  than  anything 
you  have  known." 

Calthrop  gave  a  little  shrug.  "Oh,  as 
for  that,"  said  he,  "one  never  knows  what 
one  can  bear  till  the  test  comes.  I  sup- 


74  JOURNEYS  END 

pose  it  has  hardly  begun  yet — the  heat. 
I  suppose  we  shall  have  a  couple  of  months 
of  it  at  the  least?" 

"You — you  weren't  thinking  of  taking 
any  vacation,  then?"  inquired  the  young 
woman;  ' 'you're  going  to  keep  at  it  all 
summer?" 

" Vacation!"  scoffed  Calthrop;  "bless 
you,  no !  I'm  not  in  the  way  of  taking 
vacations.  I'd  jolly  well  like  to,  but  you 
see,  I  jolly  well  can't.  But,  I  say,  you're 
not  going  off,  are  you  ?  You're  not  going 
to  leave  a  chap  alone  here  ?" 

The  plain  young  woman  turned  quite 
pink. 

"Why,"  said  she,  "I— I  wasn't— I  mean, 
that  is  to  say,  I  think  I  shall,  at — at  the 
end  of  the  week,  you  know,  just  till 
September.  I've  a  little  money  laid 
away  that  will  tide  us  over  the  summer 
and — so  I  think  I  shall  take  a  rest.  It — it 


JOURNEYS  END  75 

isn't  as  if  I  couldn't  be  spared  here,  you 
know,"  said  the  plain,  red-haired  young 
woman. 

"No,  oh,  no;  of  course  not,"  agreed 
Calthrop.  "There  isn't  anything  to  do — 
but  it's  going  to  be  beastly  dull  all  alone 
in  the  shop.  I  shall  miss  you." 

The  plain  young  woman  turned  and 
went  to  the  end  of  the  shop  in  search 
of  something  which  apparently  refused 
to  be  found,  but  she  smiled  quite  cheer 
fully  when  she  returned. 

"Come  and  see  me — us,  I  mean,"  she 
said,  "whenever  you  have  an  hour  or  two 
to  spare  and  feel  lonesome.  We  sha'n't 
be  going  out  of  town.  I'd  like  you  to 
see  the  kiddies.  Drop  in  on  a  Sunday — 
that  is,"  she  added  hesitatingly,  "if — if 
you'd  care  to." 

"Care  to,"  said  Calthrop  heartily ;  "well, 
rather !  Of  course  I  shall  come  if  I  may," 


76  JOURNEYS  END 

and  the  red-haired  young  woman  saw  fit 
to  turn  pink  once  more.  Then  presently, 
after  they  had  been  talking  of  something 
else,  "Tell  me,"  said  she;  "I've— I've  been 
thinking  about  a — a  sort  of  friend  of  mine 
who  had  a  queer — problem  offered  her. 
Tell  me  how  much  would  you  do  for  some 
one  you — cared  about?  some  one  quite 
beyond  you,  you  know;  some  one  you 
cared  about  quite  hopelessly,  oh,  quite 
hopelessly,  and — and  expected  nothing 
from." 

"Why,"  said  young  Calthrop,  "if  I 
really — cared — why,  I  think  I'd  do  just 
about  anything;  wouldn't  you?  just 
about  anything  in  my  power." 

"At  any  cost?"  said  the  red-haired 
young  woman. 

"At  any  cost,"  agreed  Mr.  Calthrop. 

The  young  woman  gave  a  relieved  little 
sigh. 


JOURNEYS  END  77 

"Yes,  I  thought  you  would  say  that," 
said  she.  ''I  thought  that's  what  you'd 
do.  Yes,  I  think  I  should  do  anything 
— thank  you." 


CHAPTER  VI 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  play  progressed — rather  unevenly, 
to  be  sure,  and  by  fits,  but  it  progressed. 
There  were  false  starts  along  ways  that 
turned  out  impasses;  there  were  schemes 
beautiful  in  conception  that  developed 
impossibilities  when  one  came  to  elaborate 
them ;  but  after  a  week  or  so  of  this  there 
came  a  plot  clear  and  simple  and  moving 
inevitably  to  its  climax — a  plot  not  start 
ling  in  the  least,  not  weird,  nor  bizarre, 
nor  tragic;  perhaps  not  even  strikingly 
original — but  after  all  it  was  not  the 
plot  which  was  to  make  the  play,  but  its 
telling. 

There  were  evenings  of  enthusiasm,  of 
inspiration,  when  a  pen  could  not  go  fast 
81 


82  JOURNEYS   END 

enough  and  Miss  Evelyn  Berkeley  sat  a 
living,  thrilling  presence  over  the  little 
writing-table;  and  after  them,  evenings 
when  young  Calthrop's  mind  was  a  weary 
blank,  when  he  loathed  the  sight  of  pen 
and  paper  and  his  whole  enterprise  seemed 
the  maddest  and  most  preposterous  non 
sense. 

"That  thing  a  play !"  he  would  sneer 
bitterly,  looking  down  at  the  scattered 
sheets;  "a  play!  a  work  of  art  to  move 
thousands  of  people  !  God  ha'  mercy,  it's 
the  saddest  drivel  that  ever  came  from  a 
pen  !"  And  he  would  read  aloud  passages 
of  the  dialogue  in  a  jeering  tone  of  scorn 
that  made  them  sound  quite  absurd. 

"Oh,  my  lady,  my  lady !"  he  would 
cry,  raising  hopeless  eyes  to  the  beautiful 
face  of  Miss  Evelyn  Berkeley.  "To  think 
that  I  could  have  been  such  a  fool.  Such 
a  mad,  presumptuous  fool !  Is  there  any 


JOURNEYS   END  83 

good  in  the  thing?  Tell  me,  is  there? 
For,  by  my  soul,  I  can't  see  it !  Ah,  that 
I  should  even  have  dreamed  of  writing 
anything  for  you — you  of  all  people  in  the 
world  !" 

And  then,  driven  quite  to  desperation, 
he  would  snatch  up  a  hat  and  rush  out  into 
the  night  to  tramp  up  and  down  Broadway 
or  the  Avenue,  beating  his  stick  savagely 
upon  the  pavement  and  calling  himself  all 
the  unpleasant  names  that  a  naturally 
active  imagination  could  invent  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment.  How  he  grew 
to  loathe  that  familiar  stretch  between 
Madison  Square  and  Forty-second  Street ! 

Sometimes  when  it  was  very  hot  and  the 
streets  were  breathless  canons  of  stone  and 
asphalt,  where  no  vagrant  breeze  strayed, 
and  the  overused  air  seemed  never  to 
change  from  one  day's  end  to  another,  he 
would  climb  upon  an  open  street  car 


84  JOURNEYS   END 

and  ride  to  the  end  of  the  line,  out  some 
where  in  Harlem — that  Bloomsbury  of 
the  New  World.  One  could  be  fairly  com 
fortable  so.  Or  he  would  go  in  the  other 
direction  to  the  Battery  and  sit  there  for 
hours  on  a  wooden  bench,  under  the 
sputtering  arc  lights,  watching  the  throng 
that  surged  unceasingly  about  the  sea 
wall,  and  taking  deep  breaths  of  the  clean 
salt  air  that  came  in  across  the  bay. 

People  moved  up  beside  him  on  the 
benches  and  spoke  to  him  with  the  easy 
familiarity  of  the  American  lower  class; 
ladies  of  an  obvious  profession  who  called 
him  "My  Dear,"  and  said  that  this  hot 
weather  did  make  one  thirsty;  beggars 
who  pleaded  for  a  few  cents  to  get  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  some  crackers — none  of  them 
had  had  anything  to  eat  for  several  days : 
young  Calthrop  was  greatly  interested 
to  know  what  they  wanted  with  crackers, 


JOURNEYS  END  85 

crackers  seeming  such  strange  things  for 
a  beggar  to  be  playing  about  with,  till  he 
found  out  later  that  crackers  were  biscuits ; 
and  there  were  others  of  a  pleasanter 
sort,  workingmen  and  their  neat  wives  out 
for  a  breath  of  live  air  before  seeking 
an  impossible  sleep  in  the  furnaces  they 
called  home;  captains  or  engineers  of 
harbor  craft,  off  duty  for  the  night ;  bagmen 
— they  called  themselves  "  drummers"  here 
in  America — who  were  stopping  at  some  of 
the  downtown  hotels,  and  who  were  very 
curious  as  to  Calthrop's  private  affairs. 

He  grew  rather  fond  of  the  Battery — the 
same  water  slapped  its  stone  walls  that 
cradled  England.  He  watched  the  lights 
on  Staten  Island  and  said  to  himself  that 
just  behind  that  yellow  glow  were  the 
green  downs  of  Devon,  and  the  Abbey  and 
Hartwell  Towers.  And  when  the  sky  was 
full  of  red  and  blue  and  purple  flashes  over 


86  JOURNEYS  END 

behind  Governor's  Island  at  Manhattan 
Beach,  he  pretended  that  it  was  an  exhi 
bition  at  Earl's  Court,  but  that  he  didn't 
care  to  go  to  it,  you  know,  because  those 
things  were  always  so  very,  very  rowdy. 

He  watched  the  steamships  move  slowly 
out  of  the  channel  toward  that  great  space 
of  open  black  beyond,  excursion  boats  to 
Coney  Island,  most  of  them,  but  now  and 
then  a  big  one,  high  out  of  the  water,  with 
fewer  lights  and  two  or  three  great  funnels 
aline.  And  these,  young  Calthrop  pre 
tended,  were  going  home,  as  doubtless 
some  of  them  were. 

' '  Lucky  devils  ! "  he  would  cry  softly, 
beating  his  hands  upon  the  iron  arms  of 
his  bench.  "  Oh,  you  lucky,  lucky  devils  ! 
You  are  going  home,  home,  God  bless  you  ! 
home  to  the  greenest,  cleanest,  dearest 
little  island  in  all  the  great  world  !  home 
to  the  good  old  sights  and  sounds  and 


JOURNEYS   END  87 

smells — London  fog  and  Devon  sunshine 
— and  the  roast  beef  of  old  England — 
which,"  he  would  add  cynically,  "you 
are  probably  carrying  with  you  from 
Chicago.  Home  !  and  I've  got  to  stop  here 
in  the  desert  and — and  sell  photographs  !' ' 
Then  he  would  get  up  and  make  his  way 
to  Twenty-fourth  Street,  very  low  in  his 
mind,  and  perhaps  sit  for  an  hour  looking 
at  the  little  picture  of  the  Honourable 
Molly  Hart  well,  and  saying  rash,  bitter, 
desperate  things  to  it — for  which  he  would 
be  sorry  the  next  morning. 

Still  the  play  progressed,  thanks  to  the 
evenings  of  inspiration  and  industry,  and 
these  evenings  grew  more  and  more  fre 
quent  as  the  thing  took  completer  shape. 
It  grew  to  possess  him,  the  play,  till  he 
lived  in  it  day  and  night.  He  was  much 
alone  in  the  Broadway  shop,  for  the  pro 
prietor  was  seldom  about  and  the  red- 


88  JOURNEYS  END 

haired  young  woman  was  of  course  no 
longer  there.  So  that  young  Calthrop  had 
many  long  hours  in  which  to  hang  over  an 
idle  showcase  and  discuss  with  himself 
minor  details  of  the  thing  that  filled  all  his 
mind,  to  balance  situations  and  to  polish 
dialogue. 

He  kept  a  little  note-book  under  the 
counter  and  in  this  he  would  jot  down 
suggestions  as  they  occurred  to  his  mind 
during  the  day,  to  be  considered  carefully 
when  the  gas  was  burning  that  evening  in 
Twenty-fourth  Street  and  Miss  Evelyn 
Berkeley  smiled  through  blue  wreaths  of 
tobacco  smoke. 


CHAPTER  VII 


CHAPTER  VII 

THEN,  one  Sunday  afternoon,  when  the 
play  was  at  a  temporary  halt  and  he  could 
seem  to  do  nothing  with  it,  he  gave  it  his 
blessing  and  mounted  the  elevated  railway 
at  Twenty-third  Street  to  make  a  call  upon 
the  red-haired  young  woman  with  the 
mother  who  wouldn't  walk  any  more,  and 
the  two  little  kiddies  who  walked  too 
much,  so  that  shoes  were  an  important 
item  of  expense. 

She  lived  far  out  in  Harlem,  near  the 
One  Hundred  and  Fifty-fifth  Street  ter 
minus  of  the  line,  indeed;  and  Calthrop 
thought  he  would  never  get  there,  though 
he  found  the  elevated  a  rather  novel 
experience,  and  heartily  wished  himself 


92  JOURNEYS  END 

elsewhere  when  the  train  crept,  at  what 
seemed  a  most  perilous  tilt,  around  the 
sharp  double  curve  at  One  Hundred  and 
Tenth  Street,  and  he  saw  from  the  window 
to  what  a  tremendous  height  from  the 
ground  the  tracks  were  reared. 

He  found  the  house  easily.  It  was  a 
very  tiny  cottage,  set  between  a  cheap 
red  brick  shop-building  and  a  high  grass- 
topped  bluff  of  rock  which  had  not  yet 
been  blasted  away  to  make  room  for 
the  ever-encroaching  tide  of  construction. 
Across  the  street  was  a  vacant  lot  given 
over  at  this  particular  time  to  a  very 
noisy  exhibition  of  the  national  game  as 
exploited  by  the  extreme  youth  of  upper 
Harlem,  but  the  game  was  temporarily 
suspended  to  allow  players  and  spectators 
a  few  moments  of  untrammeled  joy  over 
Mr.  Calthrop's  frock  coat  and  top  hat. 

That  gentleman  turned  hastily  in  at  the 


JOURNEYS  END  93 

gate  of  the  cottage,  quite  red  as  to  coun 
tenance,  and  the  young  woman  rose  from 
the  steps  to  meet  him.  She  was  almost 
pretty.  In  deference  to  the  weather,  she 
wore  something  white  and  soft  and  sum- 
merlike,  open  a  bit  at  the  neck — she  had 
a  nice  throat — and  with  sleeves  reaching 
only  to  the  elbows.  Her  red  hair,  done  in 
some  softer,  less  severe  style  than  before, 
curled  becomingly  about  her  forehead  and 
ears.  She  was  breathing  rather  quickly. 

"Oh,  this  is  good  of  you!"  she  said. 
' '  This  is  good  of  you ;  I  am  so  glad  ! " 

"So  am  I,"  said  young  Calthrop,  shak 
ing  her  hand.  "That  is,"  he  added  smil 
ingly,  "if  it's  really  you.  I  didn't  quite 
know  you  at  first." 

He  looked  down  at  the  fresh  white 
frock.  "You've  such  a  frivolous  air !"  he 
complained.  "Such  a  seashore,  summer- 
girl-having-your- vacation  look  !  No,  you 


94  JOURNEYS   END 

are  not  the  young  woman  I  used  to  know 
at  all.  You  never  sold  photographs.  I 
must  be  going  on;  I'm  looking  for  some 
body  else." 

"  Indeed  you're  not  going  on,"  said  she 
— Calthrop  wondered  what  had  evoked 
that  very  becoming  flush;  "you're  coming 
in  to  meet  the  mother,  and  if  that  ball  game 
ever  ends,  the  kiddies,  too.  I  believe  one 
of  them  is  playing  at  first  base  and  the 
other  behind  the  bat.  Did  they  make  fun 
of  your  hat  ?  Dear,  dear !  you  see  they 
probably  never  have  seen  a  top  hat  before 
except  in  pictures." 

The  mother  was  in  an  invalid  chair 
under  the  straggling  vines  of  the  porch, 
and  she  turned  out  to  be  a  very  dear  old 
lady  indeed,  with  a  tongue  in  her  head  and 
a  never-ending  flow  of  cheerfulness. 

"You  have  put  us  under  an  obligation 
that  we  never  can  repay,"  said  she,  beam- 


JOURNEYS  END  95 

ing  upon  him,  "by  coming  just  at  this 
instant.  You  see,  the  kiddies  are  playing 
on  the  side  that's  in  the  field,  and  the  score 
was  thirteen  to  thirteen  with  two  out  and 
the  bases  full.  When  they  all  stopped  to 
look  at  you,  the  lad  that's  at  bat  quite  lost 
his  head.  He'll  never  be  able  to  hit  any 
thing  now.  You've  saved  the  day. ' '  And 
the  merry  old  lady  chuckled  delightedly. 

Calthrop  laughed,  though  he  had  not 
the  remotest  idea  of  what  three  out  and 
the  bases  full  signified. 

"I'm  sorry  it  isn't  cricket,"  said  he, 
"for  I'd  like  to  play." 

"Not  in — that!"  said  the  young  woman 
anxiously.  "You  couldn't,  you  know; 
really  you  couldn't." 

"No,"  declared  Mr.  Calthrop,  firmly, 
"  not  in  that.  I  should  leave  that  in  your 
care.  Also  this"  and  he  spread  out  the 
skirt  of  his  coat  over  the  step  where  he  was 


96  JOURNEYS   END 

sitting,  to  tempt  a  very  small  but  venture 
some  kitten  who  sniffed  at  him  uncertainly 
and,  finding  him  innocent  of  harm,  curled 
up  on  the  proffered  coat. 

He  inquired  about  the  suit  at  law,  and 
they  told  him  that  they  had  brighter  hopes 
than  ever  before  of  its  turning  out  well  for 
them. 

1  'Yes,  the  very  brightest  hopes,  Mr. 
Calthrop,"  said  the  mother.  "Oh,  and  if 
it  does — if  it  does — I  know  of  one  old 
woman  who'll  be  as  happy  as  we're 
allowed  to  be  here  below,  and  one  young 
one,  too,  and  a  pair  of  kiddies  into  the  bar 
gain.  If  we  win  it  means  the  old  home  in 
Danbury,  where  I  was  born,  God  bless  it ! 
and  enough  to  keep  us  all  comfortably. 
It's  a  queer  old  place,  with  an  orchard  and 
a  garden,  and  a  white  little  house  with 
green  blinds,  and  there  are  syringas  and 
snowballs  and  dogwood  in  the  front  yard. 


YOU    DON  T    KXOW    WHAT    EXILE    IS,    MR.    CALTHROP. 


JOURNEYS  END  97 

Dear,  dear,  I  could  cry  at  the  thought. 
You  don't  know  what  exile  is,  Mr. 
Calthrop!" 

''Don't  I?"  said  young  Calthrop,  and 
the  change  that  came  over  his  face  for  an 
instant  held  the  women  silent.  "Oh, 
don't  I,  though?" 

The  younger  woman  threw  out  a  hand 
and  touched  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  forgive  us  !"  she  cried  softly.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  the  look  that  had  baffled 
and  worried  young  Calthrop  sometimes  in 
the  Broadway  shop — the  look  he  couldn't 
make  out.  "Forgive  us;  we — we  didn't 
think." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  cried  cheer 
fully.  "I've  nothing  to  complain  of  just 
now,  certainly.  I  haven't  had  so  good  a 
time  since  I  came  to  America."  The 
young  woman  looked  away.  Her  breath 
ing  appeared  somewhat  disturbed  again. 


98  JOURNEYS  END 

The  kiddies  appeared  when  the  ball 
game  was  over,  chanting  a  paean  of  vic 
tory,  one  of  them  proudly  exhibiting  a 
badly  maimed  finger.  They  were  very 
jolly  little  chaps,  though  they  seemed 
pained  and  a  bit  scandalized  at  the 
Englishman's  ignorance  of  the  very 
fundamental  principles  of  baseball. 

Altogether,  young  Calthrop  passed  an 
unexpectedly  pleasant  afternoon  and  rose 
to  go  with  genuine  regret.  The  kiddies 
insisted  upon  accompanying  him  to  the 
station  of  the  elevated,  and  the  two 
women  smiled  him  a  good-by  from  the 
vine-hung  porch  and  told  him  how  soon 
he  must  come  again. 

But  after  he  had  passed  out  of  sight  the 
red-haired  young  woman  sat  for  a  long 
time  on  her  little  porch  cushion  with  her 
cheek  against  the  arm  of  the  mother's 
chair,  and  stared  out  across  the  street,  and 


JOURNEYS   END  99 

the  good  old  mother  was  silent,  too. 
Then  at  last : 

"Dearie!" 

"Yes,  mummie,"  said  the  red-haired 
young  woman. 

"Why  did  you  leave  the  shop  last 
month?" 

The  red-haired  young  woman  looked 
up  into  her  mother's  face. 

"One  of  us  had  to  go,  mummie,"  said 
she.  "There  was  not  enough  work  for 
both." 

"And  so  you — did  it  for — for  him?" 

"Yes,  mummie,"  said  the  red-haired 
young  woman,  very  low.  "I  did  it  for 
him — but,  oh,  he  must  never  know,  never, 
never !" 

There  was  another  long  silence  while  the 
feeble  old  hand  played  among  the  red 
waves  of  the  girl's  hair. 

"  Has  it — been — long,  dearie  ? " 


ioo  JOURNEYS  END 

The  red-haired  young  woman  drew  her 
mother's  hand  down  in  both  hers  and  held 
it  to  her  cheek. 

''Almost  from  the — first,  I  think,"  said 
she;  "but  it's — very  impossible,  mummie, 

and  he  must  never  know " 

j      ' '  Poor  little  girl ! ' '  faltered  the  old  lady ; 
"poor  little  dear!" 

"No,"  cried  the  young  woman  firmly; 
"  no,  mummie,  I'm  not  to  be  pitied  !  I'm 
glad,  glad,  do  you  hear?  I've— I've 
known  always  that  it  was  hopeless.  I've 
never  dreamed  of  its  being — otherwise, 
but  it's — it's,  oh,  something  to  have  lived 
for.  I'm  glad,  mummie,  glad!"  The 
hand  at  her  cheek  stirred,  and  stirred 
again. 

"We've  only  each  other,  dear,"  said  the 
ojd  lady  after  a  time. 

"It's  enough,  mummie,"  whispered  the 
plain  young  woman. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


CHAPTER  VIII 

v 

THE   hot   summer   passed,    swiftly   at 

times,  interminably  lagging  at  others,  and 
young  Calthrop,  over  his  coffee  and  Herald 
one  morning,  awoke  to  the  fact  that 
September  was  almost  upon  him.  The 
theatrical  columns  of  the  paper  were  full 
of  gossip  about  the  forthcoming  plays,  and 
of  notices  of  the  return  of  various  well- 
known  stars  from  their  summer  vacations. 

Miss  Evelyn  Berkeley  was  expected 
from  London  in  a  week's  time  and  was 
to  open  at  the  Lyric  with  "The  Horse 
Guards ' '  again.  She  was  reported  to  have 
been  casting  about  unsuccessfully  for  a 
new  play  to  run  through  the  winter. 

"Unsuccessfully,  of  course,"  said  young 
103 


io4  JOURNEYS  END 

Calthrop  with  mock  gravity.  "  She  hasn't 
seen  my  play  yet.  Ay,  now,  there's  the 
rub  !  How  am  I  going  to  get  it  before  the 
proper  people  ?  I  don't  know  any  of  them, 
and  I  do  know  about  how  much  chance 
an  obscure  stranger  has  for  a  hearing. 
Carter,  by  Jove!"  he  cried  suddenly. 
"Why  didn't  I  think  of  Carter  before? 
Carter  knows  everybody.  He's  a  queer 
sort,  but  then  he's  American.  I  daresay 
he's  a  very  good  chap  when  you  come  to 
know  him.  He  ought  to  be  here  soon.  He 
was  to  finish,  out  there  in  the  provinces, 
before  this  time. ' '  And,  like  the  proverbial 
angel,  Carter  turned  up  the  very  next  day 
and  took  his  old  room  in  Twenty-fourth 
Street. 

He  descended  upon  Calthrop  in  the 
evening,  talking  loudly  of  his  triumph 
among  the  "yaps,"  and  boasting  of 
the  flood  of  Broadway  offers  for  the 


JOURNEYS   END  105 

coming  season  that  beset  him  on  every 
side. 

"But  I  say,"  he  protested,  " you're 
looking  thin,  and  white  around  the  gills ! 
Too  much  hot  weather?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  daresay,"  said  Calthrop. 
"  It  has  been  hot  and  I'm  just  a  bit  seedy. 
The  autumn  will  buck  me  up,  I  expect. 
You  see,  I've  been  in  town  all  summer." 

"Well,  I  don't  envy  you,"  said  the 
American.  "What  have  you  been  at, 
just  selling  photographs?" 

Young  Calthrop  relighted  his  pipe  and 
took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  he,  with  an  embar 
rassed  little  laugh;  "that,  too,  of  course; 
but — well,  you  see,  I — I've  been  writing  a 
play.  I  used  to  do  that  sort  of  thing  more 
or  less,  you  know."  He  hurried  on  as 
Carter's  mouth  opened.  "It's  not  alto 
gether  a  new  trick,  though  I  daresay  the 


io6  JOURNEYS   END 

play  is  something  awful.  You — you  may 
remember  that  just  before  you  went  away 
we  were  talking  about  Miss — Berkeley, 
and  you  were  saying  how  badly  she  needed 
a  play.  Well — I've  been  having  a  shot  at 
it,  that's  all.  Rather  silly,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Carter,  star 
ing  curiously  at  the  young  Englishman. 
"Of  course  lots  of  people  write  plays,  and 
of  course  most  of  them  are  bad,  but — you 
say  you  used  to  write  them,  that  it's  not 
altogether  a  new  trick?" 

"  In  my  Varsity  days,  you  know/' 
explained  young  Calthrop.  "We'd  a 
dramatic  club  there  in  Cambridge,  and  I — 
I  used  to  write  the  plays.  That  doesn't 
amount  to  much,  does  it  ?  Still,  it  gives 
one  just  a  bit  of  an  idea  of  what's  required, 
you  know — the  fundamentals." 

"Suppose  you  let  me  read  the  play," 
suggested  Carter. 


JOURNEYS  END  107 

"Why,"  said  young  Calthrop,  "that's 
just  what  I  was  coming  to.  You're  in  the 
profession  and  you  know  a  play  when  you 
see  one.  You  can  tell  me  if  it  has  any 
dramatic  go;  if  it's  a  stage  possibility. 
Will  you  read  it  ?  and — and  don't  be  afraid 
to  slang  it  if  it's  bad,  you  know.  Of  course, 
if  it's  good,  if  it's  worth  while,  you  could 
tell  me  how  to  get  it  before  the  right  people. 
You  see,  I  don't  know  any  one  at  all." 

"Oh,  that'll  be  easy,"  said  Carter; 
"getting  it  before  the  right  people.  I 
know  them  all,  and  I  know,  too,  that 
they're  in  a  bad  way  about  something  for 
Evelyn  Berkeley.  They  can't  find  what 
they  want.  Lord,  it  would  be  a  queer 
turn-up,  wouldn't  it,  if  you  should  happen 
to  have  done  something  good." 

"Very  queer,"  agreed  young  Calthrop 
heartily;  "but  then,  you  know,  I  probably 
haven't.  Here's  the  play." 


io8  JOURNEYS  END 

'Til  take  it  upstairs  and  read  it  over 
this  evening,"  said  Carter.  "I  haven't 
anything  to  do.  Perhaps  I  could  make 
some  suggestions  about  stage  business 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  Anyhow,  I'll  have 
a  look  at  it." 

"Now,  that's  very  jolly  of  you,  you 
know,"  said  young  Calthrop.  "I'm  tre 
mendously  obliged  and — and  all  that. 
Seems  like  a  good  bit  of  an  imposition,  but 
do  you  know,  I've  grown  rather  keen  on 
the  thing  in  these  last  few  weeks — one 
does,  of  course,"  he  added  apologetically. 

"Now,  I  call  that  very  decent  of 
Carter,"  he  mused  when  the  actor  had 
gone  upstairs.  "  He's  a  better  chap  than 
I  took  him  for.  You  never  can  make  these 
Americans  out,  they're  such  a  strange  lot." 

He  paused  before  the  little  writing-table 
and  smiled  with  bright  eyes  into  the  face 
of  Miss  Berkeley. 


JOURNEYS  END  109 

"If  it  should  be  a  go!'*  he  cried. 
"Oh,  my  lady,  if  it  should  be  a  go  !"  He 
threw  out  his  arms,  clenching  his  fists,  and 
took  a  deep  breath  that  sent  the  blood 
leaping  through  him.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  heard  the  far-off  murmurs  of 
victory,  felt  the  first  faint  thrill  of  a 
success  that  was  bound  to  come.  Miss 
Berkeley's  grave,  questioning  face,  lips 
just  trembling  to  a  smile,  appeared  to 
soften,  to  flush,  the  smile  to  deepen 
adorably. 

"You  and  I,  my  lady!"  cried  young 
Calthrop.  "It's  you  and  I  together,  and 
by  Heaven,  we'll  win  !" 

And  then,  because  he  was  far  too 
excited  and  restless  to  settle  down  to  a 
book  or  go  to  bed  in  the  chest  of  drawers, 
he  took  his  hat  and  went  out  into  the 
streets,  where  a  cool  breeze  was  blowing 
and  the  smell  of  the  heated  asphalt  and 


no  JOURNEYS  END 

smoke  was  less  disturbing  than  usual.  A 
military  band  was  playing  in  Madison 
Square,  and  throngs  of  people  loafed  about 
the  curb  under  the  electrics  or  walked 
slowly  up  and  down  the  nearby  streets; 
but  Calthrop,  who  did  not  care  for  the 
"Smoky  Mokes"  or  "El  Capitan,"  struck 
off  up  the  Avenue  and  walked  for  an  hour 
or  more  till  he  was  quieted  a  bit  and  tired 
and  ready  for  bed. 

He  was  kept  awake  a  long  time,  how 
ever,  by  the  apparent  restlessness  of  his 
theatrical  friend  in  the  room  directly  above. 

"  If  Carter  wants  exercise,"  said  he  dis 
gustedly,  "at  one  or  two  o'clock  of  the 
morning,  I  wish  to  Heaven  he'd  choose  the 
streets  for  promenading  and  not  his  room. 
I  wonder,"  he  added  drowsily,  "I  wonder 
if  he's  read — that — play  yet." 


CHAPTER  IX 


CHAPTER  IX 

CALTHROP  reached  the  Broadway  shop 
a  bit  late  the  next  morning,  and  to  his 
amazement — for  he  had  forgotten  that  it 
was  the  first  of  September — found  the  red- 
haired  young  woman  unpacking  a  box  of 
views  behind  the  counter.  She  had  not 
quite  the  frivolous  and  holiday  air  of  two 
or  three  weeks  before,  and  the  white  sum 
mer  frock  had  perforce  given  way  to  some 
thing  soberer,  but  she  was  never  the  plain 
young  woman  of  the  past  spring. 

Something  strange  and  potent,  rejuven 
ating,  had  come  to  her.  As  Calthrop  had 
insisted  out  in  Harlem,  she  was  almost 
pretty.  Moreover,  on  this  particular 
morning  she  bore  a  certain  brightness 
"3 


ii4  JOURNEYS  END 

as  to  the  eyes,  a  softened  glow,  and  as 
to  the  cheeks,  a  little  flush  that  came 
and  went.  It  was  most  becoming. 

"Well,  of  all  the  jolly  surprises !"  cried 
Calthrop,  seizing  heartily  upon  the  young 
woman's  hand.  "  I  'd  quite  forgotten  that 
to-day  was  the  first  of  September  !" 

"Had  you?"  said  she.  "I  hadn't." 
And  she  looked  away  from  Calthrop' s  face. 
"No,  I  hadn't  forgotten,"  she  said  again. 

"Now,  this  is  like  old  times,"  he  w.ent 
on.  "  I  sha'n't  have  to  be  lonely  again. 
You  know  it  was  shocking  dull  here  with 
out  you." 

"Oh,"  said  the  young  woman.     " Oh  ! " 

She  took  the  views  of  Switzerland  that 
she  had  been  unpacking  and  spread  them 
out  over  the  show-case,  but  she  seemed 
not  to  be  greatly  interested  in  them. 

"  We — we've  had  good  news,  mother  and 
I,"  she  said  presently. 


JOURNEYS  END  115 

"  What  ? "  cried  young  Calthrop.  "  Not 
the  suit  at  law  ?  You  haven't  really  won  ?" 

The  young  woman  nodded.  Calthrop 
took  both  her  hands  and  pumped  them  up 
and  down  violently. 

"By  Jove!"  he  cried.  "I  couldn't  be 
more  delighted  if  I'd  had  a  windfall  myself  ! 
Isn't  it  great?  Isn't  it  ripping?  And 
you'll  be  going  up  to  the  little  white  house 
in  Danbury — green  blinds  and  syringas 
and  dogwood  and  orchard  and  all ! — and 
a  cat — "  he  begged;  "please  say  there'll 
be  a  cat." 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  woman,  "there'll 
be  a  cat ;  she  will  sleep  on  the  porch  in  the 
sunshine,  and  she'll  have  a  little  door  of 
her  own  into  the  scullery,  and  the  kiddies 
shall  pull  her  tail  and  put  papers  on  her 
feet." 

"  That's  it ;  that's  just  it ! "  said  Calthrop 
eagerly.  "That's  just  the  thing!  I  call 


n6  JOURNEYS  END 

it  all  simply  immense.  You're  not  half 
glad  enough  about  it  all.  You  should  be 
quite  maudlin.  But  I  say,"  he  objected  in 
a  puzzled  tone,  "  what — what  in  the  world 
are  you  doing  back  here  in  the  shop?  If 
everything  is  going  so  well,  why  aren't  you 
moving  your  goods  to  Connecticut?  I 
don't  understand." 

"  Why,"  said  the  young  woman,  looking 
away — "why,  you  see  it  will  take  a  little 
while  to  get  everything  settled  up — there. 
There's  no  hurry.  Why,  I  like  the  shop 

—  I "  she  turned  toward  him  and 

dropped  her  arms  at  her  sides  with  a  queer 
little  gesture  of — as  it  were,  surrender. 
"I  came  back  because  you  were  here," 
said  the  plain,  red-haired  young  woman, 
smiling. 

Calthrop  laughed  appreciatively. 

"  You  Americans  are  such  a  lot  to  chaff !" 
said  he.  "  One  never  knows  when  you're 


JOURNEYS  END  117 

serious  or  when  you're  in  fun.  You're  all 
alike :  you  love  to  joke." 

"Do  we?"  murmured  the  red-haired 
young  woman,  bending  with  a  sudden 
interest  over  a  very  excellent  view  of  the 
village  of  Zermatt  with  the  Matterhorn 
in  the  middle  distance.  "Oh,  do  we? 
Yes,  yes;  of  course,  we  love  our  fun,  we 
Americans;  we  love  it." 

"  But  I,"  said  Calthrop,"  I've  good  news, 
too.  At  least,  I  hope  it  will  turn  out  to  be 
good.  Now,  what  would  you  say  I'd  been 
doing  this  summer — besides  selling  photo 
graphs,  of  course?" 

"Why — why,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know," 
faltered  the  young  woman.  "I  haven't 
an  idea.  Not  learning  to  play  baseball  ?" 
she  ventured.  He  shook  his  head. 

"  Writing  a  play,"  he  declared.  "  Fancy, 
will  you !" 

"Oh-h-h!"  cried  the  red-haired  young 


n8  JOURNEYS  END 

woman,  clasping  her  hands  rapturously. 
"A  play — a  real  play?  Not — not  for " 

"Yes,"  said  young  Calthrop,  " for  Miss 
Berkeley ;  and  I  think  it's  a  good  play,  too. 
Heaven  send  I'm  right !  There's  an  actor, 
a  chap  named  Carter,  who  lives  over  at  my 
diggings  in  Twenty-fourth  Street,  and  he 
is  reading  the  thing  now.  He's  going  to 
make  suggestions  about  the  stage  busi 
ness  and  all  that,  you  know.  And  he's 
going  to  see  about  getting  the  thing  before 
the  right  people.  It's  all  dreadfully  in  the 
air  yet,  isn't  it  ?  You'd  hardly  call  it  good 
news,  would  you?  But  somehow — well, 
I  believe  in  that  play.  I  know  it's  good. 
I've  faith  in  it.  I  tell  you,  I've  written 
the  very  heart  out  of  me.  It's  bound  to 
succeed;  I  won't  have  anything  else." 

" Succeed?"  said  the  red-haired  young 
woman,  smiling  up  at  him;  "  succeed  !  Of 
course  it  will  succeed  !  Why,  I'm  as  sure 


JOURNEYS   END  119 

of*  that  as  you  could  be.  Succeed? — 
rather !  And  I,"  she  went  on  eagerly, 
"  I  shall  go  to  the  opening  night  and  see 
it  triumph  and  hear  everybody  shouting 
1  Author !  Author ! '  and  I  shall  see  you 
come  out  in  front  of  the  curtain  looking 
very,  very  scared,  and  make  a  nice  little 
speech,  and  I  shall  be  simply  dying  to  tell 
everybody  around  me,  '  Why,  I  know  the 
author ;  I've  known  him  for  months.  I  knew 
all  about  this  play  even  before  MissBerkeley 
did,  and  I  said  you  would  all  be  doing  to 
night  just  what  you  are  doing.  Don't  you 
wish  you  were  I?'  That's  what  I  shall 
want  to  say.  Oh,  I  shall  be  just  as  proud 
as  you  are — more  so,  probably,  for  I  dare 
say  you  won't  be  proud  at  all.  It  would 
be  so  like  you." 

Calthrop  threw  up  his  hands,  laughing. 

1  'Heavens,  what  a  wealth  of  detail!" 
he  cried.  "I  say,  you  know,  we'd  best 


120  JOURNEYS  END 

leave  all  that  first  night  business  till  the 
play's  been  at  least  read.  I'm  afraid  my 
opinion  of  it  isn't  the  safest  one  to  go  by." 

11  But  this — this  actor,  Carter,"  said  the 
young  woman  presently,  "are  you  quite 
sure  that  he  is  all  right,  that  he  is  the 
proper  sort  to  trust  the  play  to  ?  Do  you 
know  anything  about  him  ? " 

"Carter?"  queried  young  Calthrop, 
looking  a  bit  troubled.  "Oh,  Carter's  all 
right."  He  shook  his  head.  "  No,  Carter 
wouldn't  do  anything  out  of  the  way. 
He's  a  good  enough  sort,  I'm  sure.  What 
could  he  do  to  the  play,  anyhow?  No, 
I've  no  fears  of  Carter.  By  the  way,  I 
daresay  I  shall  get  an  opinion  from  him 
this  evening  about  it  all.  He  said  he 
meant  to  read  it  last  night." 

And  indeed  Calthrop  had  hardly  come 
in  from  dinner  that  evening  when  the 
actor  was  down  with  the  packet  of  manu- 


JOURNEYS   END  121 

script.  Calthrop  lighted  a  pipe  rather 
nervously — it  required  several  matches — 
and  swallowed  an  anxious  lump  in  the 
throat. 

"  Well  ? "  said  he.  "  Well  ?  You've  read 
the  thing?  Don't — don't  be  afraid  to 
damn  it,  you  know." 

Carter  laid  the  manuscript  on  the  little 
writing-table  and  sat  down.  He  regarded 
the  Englishman  through  narrowed  lids. 

"'Damn  it?'"  said  he  slowly;  "no,  oh, 
no ;  I'm  not  prepared  to  damn  it  at  all." 

"Ah-h!"  breathed  young  Calthrop 
softly. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  continued  the  actor, 
"  that  it's  a  pretty  good  thing. ' '  He  spoke 
slowly  and  as  if  he  were  choosing  his 
words  with  some  care.  "A  good  thing, 
that  is,  in  many  ways.  Of  course,  it's  a 
bit  amateurish  and — and  impracticable 
at  certain  points,  but  there's  where  I  can 


122  JOURNEYS  END 

help  you  out,  you  know.  There's  where 
the  actual  stage  experience  must  come  in. 
The  thing  is  just  a  bit  literary — you  see 
what  I  mean  ?  It's  got  to  be  made  a  little 
more  dramatic.  I  can  do  that ;  in  fact," 
he  went  on,  lifting  the  typewritten  sheets 
one  by  one,  "I've  been  giving  it  some 
attention  to-day.  If  you'll  just  have  a 
look  at  it  here — and  here — and  here — you 
will  see  what  I've  done." 

Young  Calthrop  looked  over  the  altera 
tions  and  additions  and  his  heart  sank. 

"I  say,  you  have  chopped  it  up  a  bit, 
haven't  you  ? "  he  cried.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  Carter  had  gone  far  toward  ruining 
the  play — that  all  these  incongruous 
speeches  put  into  the  mouths  of  the  char 
acters  at  the  ends  of  already  rounded 
scenes,  or  in  the  midst  of  carefully  calcu 
lated  periods,  were  breaking  all  the  flow 
and  symmetry  of  the  dialogue.  It  seemed 


JOURNEYS   END  123 

to  him  that  the  business  which  Carter  had 
indicated  here  and  there  was  absurd. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "I— I  can't  agree  with 
you  about  all  of  these  things.  It  seems  to 
me  that  a  good  many  of  them  rather  jar 
on  one,  but — well,  of  course  you  know 
best.  You  can  tell  better  than  I  how  the 
thing  is  going  to  look  and  sound.  Of 
course,  I'm — well,  tremendously  grateful 
and — and  all  that !  It's  more  than  good 
of  you  to  take  such  a  lot  of  trouble  !" 

"  Don't  mention  it,  my  dear  boy,"  said 
the  American,  raising  his  hand  theatri 
cally.  "I'm  always  glad  to  lend  a  hand 
to  struggling — er,  genius.  Don't  mention 
it,"  and  he  folded  his  arms  and  looked 
benevolent. 

"Then  you  think,"  ventured  young 
Calthrop,  "you  think  it's  really  good? 
You  think  it  will  go  as  it  stands  now?" 

"I  won't  say  it  will  go,"  demurred  the 


i24  JOURNEYS   END 

American.  "  That  is  too  much  to  promise 
of  any  play.  I  think  it  ought  to  go,  and 
moreover,  it  is  suited  undoubtedly  to 
Evelyn  Berkeley.  It's  pretty  and  idyllic 
and  all  that,  but  at  the  same  time  it's 
got  genuine  strength.  That  Mariana 
is  a  fat  part;  you  can't  get  around 
that." 

"Then  you'll  try  to  get  it  read — con 
sidered?"  asked  young  Calthrop,  moisten 
ing  his  lips. 

"By  all  means.  I  wrote  to  Freeman 
to-day  asking  for  an  interview.  He  knows 
me  and  knows  I  wouldn't  bother  him  with 
trash.  He'll  read  the  play  all  right.  Of 
course,"  he  went  on,  "of  course,  you  must 
expect  some  little  delay.  Those  things 
aren't  done  all  at  once,  but  just  you  leave 
it  all  to  me  and  I'll  see  you  through  with 
it.  I'll  let  you  know  from  time  to  time 
how  everything's  going." 


JOURNEYS  END  125 

He  took  up  the  manuscript  once  more 
and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"1*11  just  have  a  fresh  copy  of  this 
made,"  said  he,  "embodying  the  altera 
tions,  you  know.  No,  you  needn't  bother 
about  it  yourself ;  I  know  of  a  place  where 
they'll  do  it  for  me  very  quickly.  We  can 
settle  about  it  later  on.  Good-night,  old 
man;  I'm  off  to  bed." 

"Good-night,  good-night,"  said  young 
Calthrop  heartily.  "By  Jove,  you're  a 
— you're  an  awfully  good  old  chap,  you 
know.  I — I  hadn't  a  shadow  of  claim 
upon  you  for  all  this,  but  I  sha'n't  forget 
it.  If  ever  I  can  do  anything  for  you,  let 
me  know.  I'm  tremendously  in  your  debt. 
And  to  think,"  he  went  on  when  Carter 
was  gone,  "  to  think  that  I  called  that  chap 
a  bounder  when  I  met  him  first !  My 
word,  if  there's  a  better-hearted  man  about 
New  York  I'd  jolly  well  like  to  see  him. 


i26  JOURNEYS  END 

but  I  don't  believe  there  is.  I  wonder  if 
all  Americans  are  like  that,  always  trying 
to  do  something  for  you." 

His  eye  roamed  absently  over  the  pic 
ture  of  the  Honourable  Molly  Hartwell 
and  out  of  the  window  into  the  blue-black 
night  and  beyond  that  into  a  golden 
future,  which  was  a  medley  of  popular 
applause  and  of  the  consciousness  of 
work  well  done — and  of  Miss  Evelyn 
Berkeley.  His  pulses  stirred  at  the  very 
thought. 

"But  'castles  in  Spain!'"  he  thought, 
laughing,  and  shook  himself  free  of  dreams. 
" Castles  in  Spain,  my  dear  boy!  It 
won't  do !  Stop  it ;  stop  it !  They've  a 
knack  of  crumbling,  those  chateaux. 
They're  not  built  to  stand  wind  and 
weather.  Stop  it ;  stop  it !  Wait  till  you 
can  build  *  really  castles/  My  very  good 
chap,  to  be  unpoetical,  don't  count  your 


JOURNEYS  END  127 

chickens  before  they're  hatched,  nor  your 
audience  before  the  play's  accepted;  and 
meanwhile — why,  meanwhile  go  to  bed. 
It's  a  scandalous  hour." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  following  week  was  a  sort  of  night 
mare  that  young  Calthrop  ever  after 
endeavoured  industriously  to  forget — a 
nightmare  of  uncertainty,  of  waiting,  of 
bright  hopes  one  day  to  be  followed  by 
depths  of  hopeless  depression  the  next. 
No  sign  came  from  Carter,  and  young 
Calthrop  was  unwilling  to  ask  for  news. 
He  did  not  wish  to  seem  overanxious  or 
pressing,  and  he  realized  that  more  or  less 
delay  was  inevitable.  Still,  Carter  might 
have  dropped  in  of  an  evening  to  report 
any  progress — at  least  to  talk  the  thing 
over.  It  was  most  peculiar. 

He  fell  to  thinking,  sometimes — this  was 
in  the  low  moods — of  Carter's  queer  man- 


132  JOURNEYS   END 

ner  that  other  evening.  He  had  seemed 
so  altered,  less  bluff  and  bragging  and — 
natural,  quieter,  keener.  Then  Calthrop 
would  pull  up  sharp  and  call  himself 
names  for  his  vague,  unformed  doubt. 
"Carter's  the  best  chap  I  ever  knew !"  he 
would  say  indignantly,  "and  you're  a 
swine  to  doubt  it !" 

But  he  was  greatly  troubled,  and  his 
depression  increased  when  one  morning 
the  relic  of  Bloomsbury,  in  bringing  him 
his  coffee,  said: 

"You'll  be  missing  Mr.  Carter,  sir,  'e 
was  such  a  nice,  larky  sort  of  young  gentle 
man.  The  party  as  is  in  'is  room  is  an  old 
silversmith." 

"Wh-at!"  cried  young  Calthrop. 
"  Wh-at !  Say  that  again  !  Do  you  mean 
that  Carter's  no  longer  in  the  house? 
Good  Lord,  where  is  he,  then?  Carter 
gone — gone?" 


JOURNEYS  END  133 

"Hi  don't  know,  sir,"  replied  the  relic 
of  Bloomsbury.  "  'E  left  nearly  a  week 
agow.  'E  said  'e  was  moving  farther 
uptown." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  of  course,"  said  young 
Calthrop.  "Yes,  I'd  forgotten.  That's 
all,  thank  you.  Yes,  'farther  up 
town/" 

But  he  went  to  the  Broadway  shop  with 
his  head  in  a  whirl  and  certain  vague  fears 
that  he  dared  not  formulate  beating 
within  him.  Still  Garter  was  a  good  chap ; 
why,  there  couldn't  be  any  doubt  of  that. 
Of  course,  he  had  reasons  for  moving 
away  even  if  he  hadn't  thought  to  men 
tion  the  fact.  Oh,  no,  there  couldn't  be 
anything  wrong  with  Carter.  What  in 
Heaven's  name  would  Carter  want  to  run 
away  with  the  play  for  ?  That  would  be 
so  silly ! 

Still,  for  all  this,  a  gloom  settled  upon 


i34  JOURNEYS  END 

him  that  would  not  be  lifted  or  lightened, 
and  the  days  dragged. 

The  red-haired  young  woman  saw  that 
something  was  wrong  and  knew  that  it 
must  be  about  the  great  play,  but  she  was 
tactful  enough  to  pretend  not  to  notice, 
and  did  all  that  any  one  could  do  to  cheer 
the  man  up  in  her  nice,  bright,  wholesome 
way.  It  wasn't  till  very  long  afterward 
that  Calthrop  realized  how  much  he  owed 
her  for  this  week. 

Then  one  morning  Carter  strolled  into 
the  Broadway  shop  and  asked  the  red- 
haired  young  woman  for  some  photographs 
of  a  certain  Parisian  danseuse.  Carter 
bore  an  unusually  jaunty  air.  He  looked 
pleased  with  the  world,  and  his  raiment 
was  as  obviously  new  as  it  was  unpleas 
antly  ostentatious. 

Young  Calthrop,  who  had  been  in 
the  rear  of  the  shop,  moved  forward 


JOURNEYS   END  135 

and  said  to  the  red-haired  young 
woman : 

"Let  me  get  the  photographs  out. 
Mr.  Carter  is  a — friend  of  mine." 

The  actor  fell  back  a  step  and  his  face 
turned  slowly  quite  crimson. 

"Why— why  you,  Calthrop!"  he  fal 
tered.  "Vow  here!  I— I  didn't  know " 

"Good-morning,"  said  young  Calthrop 
cheerfully.  "Didn't  know  I  was  in  the 
shop,  here  ?  Oh,  I  told  you  I  sold  photo 
graphs,  you  know.  I'm  glad  you  hap 
pened  in.  I've  been  wanting  to  see  you. 
You've  left  Twenty-fourth  Street,  I  hear." 

"Yes,  yes,  oh  yes,  of  course  !"  said  the 
actor.  "The  fact  is — yes,  I've  gone  up 
to  Thirty-fo — I've  gone  a  bit  farther  up 
town.  It  was — more  convenient.  Oh, 
about  that  play  of  — ours,  now 

"'Ours,'"  observed  young  Calthrop 
to  himself.  "'Ours!'  That's  something 


136  JOURNEYS  END 

new.  I  admire  his  choice  of  pronouns. 
Why,  yes,"  said  he  aloud,  "yes,  that  was 
what  I  wanted  to  see  you  about.  Can  you 
give  me  any  news?  I  was  the  least  bit 
worried  over  you're  leaving  the  house. 
You  see,  I  didn't  know  where  to  find  you." 

The  actor  looked  down  at  his  yellow 
gloves  and  smoothed  the  wrinkles  with  a 
little  frown. 

"Well,  the  fact  is,"  said  he  slowly,  "the 
play  didn't  quite — not  quite — suit  Mr. 
Freeman.  He — he  thought  I  might  be 
able  to  knock  it  into  shape  in  time,  but 
— you  see,  he's  already  chosen  a  play  for 
Miss  Berkeley." 

Young  Calthrop  took  a  sudden  little 
breath. 

"Al — already  chosen  a  play?"  said  he: 

"Why,  yes,"  said  the  actor,  looking 
away.  "  Didn't  you  read  it  in  the  paper 
this  morning?" 


JOURNEYS  END  137 

A  folded  Herald  lay  upon  the  show 
case  nearby  and  Calthrop  picked  it  up 
and  opened  it  slowly  to  the  theatrical 
page.  He  found  the  notice  at  once. 

"Mr.  Freeman  is  said  to  have  selected 
the  vehicle  for  the  exploitation  of  Miss 
Evelyn  Berkeley's  talents  during  the  com 
ing  season.  Miss  Berkeley  has  already 
opened  the  Lyric  for  a  short  run  of  last 
year's  favourite  'The  Horse  Guards/  but 
will  produce  the  new  play  in  a  month's 
time." 

The  Herald  rustled  to  the  floor. 

"Yes,  I — see,"  said  young  Calthrop. 
"  Ah,  well,  it — it  doesn't  matter  much,  does 
it?  It  isn't  as  if  I — really  cared." 

He  was  wishing  that  Carter  would  go 
away  and  leave  him  alone.  He  wanted  to 
be  alone  for  a  very  long  time  to  wrestle  with 
the  great  sickening  weight  that  had  come 


i38  JOURNEYS   END 

upon  him.  He  was  a  bit  troubled,  too,  in 
wondering  if  he  showed  anything  of  what 
he  was  feeling.  He  mustn't  do  that  above 
all  things.  He  must  be  absolutely  non 
chalant  and  at  ease  before  Carter. 

"  So  you  see,''  proceeded  the  actor  rather 
hurriedly,  "it  won't  do  there.  Still,  as  I 
said,  it  might  be  knocked  into  shape  later 
on,  or — or  offered  elsewhere.  Evelyn 
Berkeley  isn't  the  only  actress  alive. 
Look  here !" 

He  leaned  confidentially  across  the 
counter  toward  young  Calthrop.  "Look 
here,  I've  got  my  sporting  blood  up,  and 
it  riled  me  being  turned  down  that  way. 
I  want  to  do  something  with  that  little 
play — not  now,  perhaps,  but  at  my  leisure. 
I've  taken  an  interest  in  the  game.  Now 
I'll  make  you  a  proposition — What  will 
you  take  for  the  play  just  as  it  is?  I'd 
like  to  go  over  it  on  my  own  hook  and  do 


JOURNEYS  END  139 

what  I  like  to  it,  and  I've  enough  confi 
dence  in  my  judgment  to  be  willing  to  pay 
you  a  reasonable  price  as  a  bit  of  spec. 
What  will  you  take  for  it  ?" 

Young  Calthrop  looked  up  very  quickly. 
The  fall  of  his  castle  about  his  ears,  the 
rumble  and  dust  of  the  debris,  the  utter 
wreck  of  too  confident  hopes,  had  dulled 
his  senses  and  befogged  his  mind.  He 
was  in  no  state  for  acute  observation,  but 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  actor  was  just 
a  bit  too  eager,  that  his  eyes  were  a  shade 
too  anxious.  Still,  that  notice  in  the 
paper  must  be  true.  She  must  have  been 
provided  with  a  play — and  nothing  else 
mattered. 

He  made  a  little  gesture  of  weariness, 
protest. 

"No,  thanks,"  he  said.  "I'm  very 
much  obliged  for  your  offer,  but — well,  I 
wrote  the  thing  for  Miss  Berkeley.  I 


I4o  JOURNEYS  END 

shouldn't  care  to  see  it  go  elsewhere,  even 
if  it  were  possible.  No,  I  don't  think  I'll 
sell.  I — I  don't  want  you  to  think  that 
I'm  not  tremendously  grateful  to  you  for 
all  you've  done,"  he  went  on,  smiling 
politely.  "As  I  said  the  other  day,  I'm 
no  end  in  your  debt,  but  I  think  I'll  keep 
the  play.  It  was  a  bit  silly  even  to  think 
of  submitting  it,  wasn't  it?  Now,  if  you 
will  give  me  your  address,  I'll  call  around 
in  a  day  or  so  and  get  the  manuscript." 

The  actor  pulled  nervously  at  his  glove. 

"  I — I'd  be  disposed  to  make  you  a  good 
offer,"  said  he..  Young  Calthrop  thought 
again  that  his  eyes  were  a  bit  too  anxious. 
"And,"  he  continued,  "of  course  it's  not 
my  affair,  but  I  think  you  would  be  foolish 
not  to  take  me  up.  As  it  is,  you'll  get 
nothing  at  all,  while  if  you  sell  to  me  you 
will  get  enough  at  least  to  pay  you  for  the 
time  you've  spent  on  the  thing." 


JOURNEYS   END  141 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  said  young  Calthrop. 
"I  think  I'll  keep  it." 

He  drew  over  to  him  a  pad  of  paper  and 
a  pencil. 

"  Did  you  say  what  your  address  was  ?" 
he  suggested.  "  I  couldn't  think  of  troub 
ling  you  to  bring  the  manuscript  to  me." 

The  actor  pulled  on  a  yellow  glove  with 
quite  a  jerk  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
There  was  a  slight  crease  between  his 
brows. 

"As  you  like,"  said  he;  "as  you  like. 
Just  remember,  though,  I  made  the  offer. 
Oh,  my  address?  Why,  it's  307  Thirty 
—Thirty-ninth  Street— East." 

Young  Calthrop  looked  up  from  the 
paper  with  a  little  narrowing  of  the  eyes. 

"I  thought  you  started  to  say  Thirty- 
fourth  Street  a  little  while  ago,"  said  he. 

"Thirty-fourth  Street?"  inquired  the 
American,  smiling  gently.  "  Oh,  dear  me, 


i42  JOURNEYS   END 

no.  You  misunderstood.  Thirty-ninth 
Street,  my  dear  man,  Thirty-ninth — East. 
Ah,  well,  good-day,  Calthrop,  good-day. 
I'll  be  in  again.  Sorry  we  couldn't  come 
to  terms." 

Young  Calthrop  looked  after  him  with 
a  puzzled  air.  It  had  all  seemed  a  bit 
queer,  and  he  couldn't  make  it  out. 

"I  don't  like  that  chap's  face,"  said 
he,  "nor  his  manner.  There's  something 
wrong  somewhere.  What  does  he  want  of 
the  play,  anyhow?  Ah,  well,  She  can't 
use  it.  That's  all  I  care  for.  Carter  can 
sink  its  corpse  in  New  York  harbour  if  he 
likes.  But  I  wonder " 

He  walked  with  bowed  head  past  the 
red-haired  young  woman  and  to  the  back 
of  the  shop  where  there  was  a  little  cloak 
room  with  a  wash-stand  and  a  square 
mirror.  The  red-haired  young  woman 
looked  after  him  with  an  expression  in  her 


JOURNEYS   END  143 

eyes  that  would  have  caused  him  some 
thought  if  he  could  have  seen  it. 

He  washed  his  hands  mechanically — 
he  had  been  opening  a  foreign  consignment 
of  goods — and  caught  sight  of  his  face  in 
the  square  mirror.  It  pulled  him  up  with 
a  gasp. 

"My  Lord,  do  I  look  like  that?"  he 
cried.  "Here,  buck  up,  buck  up!  That 
won't  do.  Haven't  you  any  sporting  blood 
at  all  ?  You're  a  rotten  bad  loser.  Buck 
up  !"  and  he  walked  back  to  the  red-haired 
girl  behind  the  counter,  smiling  amiably. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you,"  said  he, 
shaking  his  head  at  her  humourously,  "  but 
you'll  have  to  give  up  the  idea  of  that  first 
night  performance  and  my  little  speech 
and  all.  There  isn't  going  to  be  any  first 
night.  There  isn't  going  to  be  any  night 
at  all.  It's  all  off,  do  you  hear — all  off ! 
Do  you  know  I've  a  suspicion  that  my 


144  JOURNEYS  END 

forte  is  selling  photographs.  I  know  it 
isn't  writing  plays." 

"Do  you  mean—"  gasped  the  young 
woman,  "you  don't  mean — oh,  the  play 
has  not  been — refused?  Oh,  no,  no,  it 
can't  be  true,  it  can't !" 

"Oh,  yes,  but  it  can,"  said  young 
Calthrop  cheerfully.  "  It  not  only  can  be 
true,  but  it  is.  Chucked  up  !  chucked  up  ! 
And  all  my  castles  that  I'd  built  so  bravely 
gone  with  it.  Oh,  nothing,  nothing!" 

The  red-haired  young  woman  dropped 
her  hands  and  raised  her  face  to  Calthrop. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Calthrop,  I'm  so  sorry,"  she 
said.  There  was  a  little  half -sob  in  her 
voice.  "Oh,  I'm  so  sorry'" 

Calthrop  turned  abruptly  away  with 
something  in  his  throat. 

"Oh,  it's— it's  all  right,"  said  he,  but 
his  voice  shook  a  bit  for  all  that. 
"It's  all  right,  it  doesn't  matter,  you 


JOURNEYS  END  I45 

know.  You— you're  a  dear,  God  bless 
you!  But  it  doesn't  matter— nothing 
does.  My  line  is  selling  photographs. 

Chucked  up!     After   all   my Great 

God  !  chucked  up  !  chucked  up  !" 


CHAPTER   XI 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  two  days  afterward,  and  the  red- 
haired  young  woman  was  busily  engaged 
in  pasting  the  name  of  a  Parisian  celebrity  > 
of  whom  some  photographs  had  been 
received  upon  the  proper  file  when  young 
Calthrop  paused  beside  her. 

"Miss — Berkeley  is  coming  into  the 
shop,"  said  he.  "Would  you  mind  wait 
ing  upon  her?  I — I  think  I'd  rather  not 
do  it,"  and  he  moved  toward  the  back  of 
the  shop. 

The  red-haired  young  woman  looked  up 
with  a  little  gasp.  Miss  Berkeley  had  just 
left  a  cab  at  the  curbstone  and  had  paused 
a  moment  in  the  doorway  of  the  shop  to 
greet  a  woman  who  had  been  passing.  In 
149 


1 5o  JOURNEYS  END 

a  moment  the  two  came  in  together,  saying 
excitedly  how  jolly  it  was  after  so  long  to 
run  upon  each  other  this  way  and  how 
glad  each  was  to  see  the  other.  Indeed, 
Miss  Berkeley  seemed  quite  to  have  for 
gotten  what  she  had  come  after,  but  broke 
off  directly  with  a  little  laugh  and  asked 
the  girl  if  she  might  see  some  photographs 
of  Mr.  Jefferson.  The  red-haired  young 
woman  noticed  that  Miss  Berkeley  had 
glanced  up  and  down  the  length  of  the  shop 
for  an  instant  as  if  she  missed  something. 
"Yes,  oh,  yes,"  she  said  to  the  other 
woman,  "I've  got  a  play  at  last.  Didn't 
you  read  about  it  in  the  papers  the  other 
day  ?  A  pla^ !  I  should  think  I  had. 
My  dear,  it's  a  poem  !  It's  a  perfect  idyl, 
I  tell  you  !  And  yet,  curiously  enough,  it 
is  dramatic,  too.  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  be 
rid  of  'The  Horse  Guards.'  You've  no 
idea  how  tired  one  grows  of  doing  the  same 


JOURNEYS   END  151 

play,  even  if  it's  a  good  one,  for  months 
and  months.  One  grows  to  loathe  it. 
But  this  new  piece  is  truly  wonderful ! 
What?  Who  did  it?  Oh,  that's  the 
funniest  part !  A  cheap  third-rate  young 
actor,  who's  been  doing  small  parts  at  some 
of  the  downtown  houses,  claims  to  have 
done  it.  He  brought  it  to  Mr.  Freeman  only 
last  week  and  said  he'd  written  it  especially 
for  me.  Fancy  !  Of  course  Mr.  Freeman 
took  it  up  at  once.  The  thing  is  a  genuine 
find,  you  know,  but  neither  he  nor  I  believe 
the  man  actually  wrote  it.  It  isn't  like 
him  at  all — at  least,  the  greater  part  of  it 
isn't  like  him.  There  are  bits  of  it  here 
and  there  that  he  might  have  done — bits 
curiously  unlike  the  general  tone  of  the 
play,  you  know.  They  go  far  toward 
spoiling  it.  Oh,  it's  all  quite  mysterious, 
but  at  any  rate  we've  the  play,  and  we're 
going  to  do  it,  thank  Heaven," 


152  JOURNEYS  END 

"It  is  queer,  isn't  it?"  said  the  other 
woman.  "You're  probably  wronging  the 
poor  man,  though.  I  daresay  he's  quite 
honest.  The  mere  fact  that  he's  a  poor 
actor  doesn't  stand  in  the  way  of  his  being 
a  good  playwright." 

Miss  Berkeley  shook  her  head  with  a 
puzzled  frown. 

"No,  no,  of  course  not,"  she  admitted. 
"  Still — well,  I've  met  the  man,  you  know, 
and — I  don't  trust  him.  I  shouldn't  wish 
to  have  much  to  do  with  him." 

"What  is  his  name  ? "  inquired  the  other. 

"Carter,"  said  Miss  Berkeley. 

The  red-haired  young  woman  behind  the 
counter  gave  a  sudden  smothered  cry. 

"Oh-h!"  she  cried  excitedly,  "Oh— I 
— I  beg  your  pardcn,  but — but  you  don't 
know,  Miss — Miss  Berkeley.  Oh,  some 
thing  dreadful  has  happened!"  She 
clasped  her  hands  at  her  breast  and 


Q. 
K- 


o  a 

s 


o 

II 


JOURNEYS   END  153 

breathed  very  quickly.  "  I — couldn't 
help  hearing  what  you  said  just  now,"  she 
apologized.  "That — that  play  is  Mr. 
Calthrop's  play !  The — other  man  stole 
it — promised  Mr.  Calthrop  to  help  him 
have  it  produced  and  stole  it !  Don't 
you  understand? — stole  it  outright.  Oh, 
Mr.  Calthrop,  Mr.  Calthrop!" 

Calthrop  came  up  from  the  back  of  the 
shop,  looking  curiously  at  the  excited 
young  woman  with  the  red  hair  and  at 
Miss  Evelyn  Berkeley,  who  stood  wide- 
eyed  and  a  little  flushed  across  the  coun 
ter.  He  fancied  that  he  saw,  for  just  an 
instant,  a  certain  light  as  of  recognition 
in  her  eyes,  but  that  may  have  been 
imagination. 

The  third  woman  stood  near,  beating 
her  gloved  hands  softly  together  and  smil 
ing  with  delighted  appreciation,  as  if  she 
were  sitting  in  a  box  at  the  theatre  and 


154  JOURNEYS   END 

admiring  the  way  in  which  the  villain  was 
unmasked  and  the  hero  left  triumphant. 

"You — you  called  me?"  said  Calthrop 
to  the  red-haired  young  woman. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Calthrop,"  cried  the  red- 
haired  young  woman,  "that — that  dread 
ful — man  has—  But  Miss  Evelyn 
Berkeley  raised  her  hand. 

"Will  you  allow  me?"  she  begged. 
"Mr. — er  Calthrop,"  she  went  on  with  a 
little  inclination  of  the  head,  "I  have  a 
play  in  preparation  which  was  submitted 
to  Mr.  Freeman  last  week.  It  is  the  play 
that  I  intend  to  use  during  the  coming 
season.  The  name  of  it  is — 'Journeys 
End/  '  Young  Calthrop  put  out  a  hand 
quickly  and  caught  at  the  edge  of  the 
show-case.  His  face  went  just  a  bit  pale. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  moistening  his  lips. 
"Yes,  I— I  know." 

"  It  was  submitted  to  Mr.   Freeman," 


JOURNEYS  END  155 

continued  Miss  Berkeley,  a  certain  excite 
ment  growing  in  her  eyes,  "by  an  actor 
calling  himself  Carter,  who  claimed  to  have 
written  the  play.  His  name  was  on  the 
typewritten  manuscript."  She  paused  an 
instant  as  if  to  give  him  an  opportunity  to 
speak,  but  Mr.  Calthrop  was  staring  down 
at  the  very  excellent  photographs  of  Mr. 
Jefferson  spread  out  upon  the  show-case 
and  did  not  even  raise  his  eyes. 

"Neither  Mr.  Freeman  nor  I  have  been 
quite  easy  about  the  thing,"  she  went  on, 
"because  we  could  not  believe  that  this 
Carter  had  actually  written  the  play. 
Still,  since  he  presented  it  and  it  was — 
more  than  good,  we  felt  compelled  to  take 
it  at  once.  We  had  no  proof  that  he  was 
not  the  author." 

Young  Calthrop  looked  up  at  last,  but 
there  was  no  joy  in  his  eyes  nor  hopeful 
ness  in  his  bearing. 


i56  JOURNEYS  END 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  he  wearily,  "I  wrote 
'Journeys  End* — but  you've  only  my 
word  for  it.  I  don't  see  how  I'm  going  to 
prove  it.  Of  course  I  could  say  the  thing 
backward,  but,  then,  so  could  Carter,  I 
expect,  if  he's  a  fairly  quick  study.  Yes,  I 
wrote  the  play,  but  Carter's  got  it.  Pos 
session's  nine  points  of  the  law,  I'm  told." 

Miss  Berkeley  looked  at  him  anxiously. 

"Why,"  said  she,  "there  must  be  some 
way  of  proving  that  you  wrote  it.  Can't 
you  think  of  something?  Wouldn't  it 
do  simply  to  go  to  him  and  demand  your 
rights  ?  Show  him  that  you  know  all  he's 
been  doing.  I'm  sure  we — Mr.  Freeman 
and  I — would  do  all  in  our  power  to  help. 
There  must  be  some  way  out  of  it.  You — 
you  might  just  give  him  a  very,  very 
thorough  thrashing,"  she  smiled. 

"Oh,  of  course  I  shall  do  that,"  said 
Calthrop.  "That  goes  without  saying; 


JOURNEYS   END  157 

but  it  won't  win  back  my  play.  No,  I 
don't  see  what  can  be  done.  If  he's 
blackguard  enough  to  pass  the  thing  off 
as  his  own,  he'll  have  the  nerve  to  cheek  it 
through.  It's — it's  good  of  you,  though. ' ' 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  said  Miss  Evelyn 
Berkeley.  "Why — why,  wait  a  moment ! 
Let  me  think.  The  play  was  submitted, 
of  course,  in  type.  Haven't  you  your 
own  written  manuscript?  Couldn't  you 
show  that  by  way  of  proof  ?" 

"By  Jove !"  cried  young  Calthrop. 
"By  Jove!  you  have  it!  It's  the  very 
thing.  Of  course  I've  the  manuscript. 
I  never  gave  him  that.  I  gave  him  the 
first  typed  copy  and  he  had  a  fresh  copy 
made  with  his  corrections  and  his  own 
name.  Yes,  I've  the  original  manuscript, 
just  as  it  was  first  written,  without  any 
of  Carter's  interpolations.  That's  proof 
enough,  isn't  it?" 


158  JOURNEYS   END 

Miss  Berkeley  clapped  her  hands. 
"Proof!"  said  she,  "of  course  it's  proof. 
Why  didn't  we  think  of  it  sooner?"  She 
paused  a  moment  considering. 

"Mr.  Calthrop,"  she  said  at  last,  "could 
you  come  to  call  upon  me  to-morrow 
afternoon  and  bring  the  manuscript? 
We  must  make  some  plan  to  catch  that— 
that  thief  at  his  work.  He  must  be 

/ 

absolutely  routed  and  as  publicly  as  pos 
sible.  Rehearsals  are  to  commence  in  two 
or  three  days.  Can  you  come  to-morrow  ?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  young  Calthrop. 
"Yes,  I'll  come  by  all  means  and  bring 
the  manuscript  with  me." 

"Ah,  then  that's  all  right,"  cried  Miss 
Berkeley.  "I  shall  expect  you.  Isn't  it 
the  most  wonderful  thing  that  it  should 
all  have  come  out  in  this  way  ?  We  must 
be  going  on.  No,  I  don't  think  I  want  Mr. 
Jefferson's  pictures  now,  I'm  too  excited. 


JOURNEYS   END  159 

To-morrow,  Mr.  Calthrop,"  and  she  gave 
them  a  little  smiling  nod  and  went  out  to 
her  cab. 

"I  told  you  once,"  said  young  Calthrop, 
smiling  down  upon  the  red-haired  young 
woman,  '  *  I  told  you  that  you  were  a  dear. 
If  you  don't  greatly  mind  I  should  like  to 
tell  you  so  again — a  dear  !  Well,  rather  !" 
He  took  her  two  hands  in  his  and  swung 
them  back  and  forth. 

"Just  consider  for  a  moment,  will  you," 
said  he,  "how  much  I  owe  you!  If  it 
weren't  for  you  we  should  never  have 
found  out — or  at  least  not  till  too  late — • 
that  Carter  was  a  rascal.  And — I,  why, 
I  should — I  don't  know  what  would  have 
become  of  me.  What,  tears?  Stop  it, 
stop  it,  I  say,  this  instant — though  on  my 
soul  I  could  blub  myself !  Ah,  you  shall 
have  your  first  night  and  your  speech 
after  all.  I'm  sure  of  it  now.  Come, 


160  JOURNEYS   END 

come,  cheer  up !  Dear  old  girl,  stop 
weeping  over  a  pal's  good  luck  and  give 
him  a  smile  instead.  God  bless  your 
kind  heart.  I  believe  you're  the  best 
there  is,  the  very  best  1" 


CHAPTER   XII 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  maid  said  yes,  Miss  Berkeley  was  at 
home  to  Mr.  Calthrop,  and  would  he  be 
good  enough  to  come  upstairs  to  Miss 
Berkeley's  own  rooms,  to  which  Mr. 
Calthrop  replied  cheerfully  that  it  required 
no  goodness  on  his  part  whatever;  and 
mounted  to  the  second  story.  The  maid 
drew  aside  the  hangings  from  a  doorway 
and  announced:  "Mr.  Cecil  Calthrop," 
and  he  entered.  It  was  a  big  square  room, 
rather  dim,  for  the  sunlight  from  outside 
came  faintly  through  drawn  shades  in  a 
soft  golden  glow  that  brightened  only  one 
end  of  the  room.  The  rest  was  in  shadow, 
so  that  the  flame  from  a  little  Spanish 
altar  lamp  in  a  corner  threw  crimson 
163 


1 64  JOURNEYS   END 

beams  down  among  the  many  pillows  of 
the  divan  beneath. 

There  was  a  great  bowl  of  roses  on  one 
of  the  tables  and  their  scent  filled  the 
room.  Calthrop  remembered  it  always 
by  the  scent  of  those  roses  and  the  crimson 
glow  of  the  little  Spanish  altar  lamp  that 
hung  from  its  gargoyle. 

Miss  Berkeley  had  been  at  the  piano 
playing  something  soft  and  quaint  and 
old,  something  Elizabethan  to  sing  ancient 
love  songs  to.  She  had  put  a  newspaper 
on  the  strings  to  make  the  piano  sound 
like  a  spinet.  She  rose  quickly  and 
crossed  the  room  to  him,  holding  out  her 
hand. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you,"  said  she  in 
her  beautiful  soft  voice. 

"Not  long,  I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Calthrop. 
He  was  wondering  if  any  other  human 
being  had  ever  possessed  such  eyes. 


SOMETHING    ELIZABETHAN    TO    SIXG    ANCIENT    LOVE-SONGS    TO. 


JOURNEYS  END  165 

They  were  lovelier  than  the  picture. 
Oh,  infinitely  lovelier! 

"Why — yes,"  said  Miss  Berkeley  with  a 
queer  little  laugh,  "curiously  long."  Or 
such  hair,  wondered  young  ,  Calthrop. 
No,  it  was  very  improbable  that  any  one 
had  ever  had  such  hair.  One  wanted  to 
touch  it,  smooth  it.  One  had  sudden 
mad  dreams  of  how  soft  and  sweet  it 
would  be  to  lay  one's  cheek  against — and 
her  mouth,  that  drooped  so  at  the  corners, 
and  had  an  upper  lip  that  curled  outward  ! 
Oh,  yes,  she  was  lovelier  than  the  picture, 
though  he  had  fancied  no  one  could  be 
that — perhaps  it  was  just  because  she 
was  alive,  the  picture  made  human,  warm 
and  fragrant  and  breathing. 

"I've  brought  you  the  manuscript," 
said  young  Calthrop,  with  a  deep  breath. 

"Oh !  why,  yes,  yes  !"  said  Miss  Berkeley, 
dropping  her  eyes;  "the  manuscript,  to  be 


1 66  JOURNEYS  END 

sure  !  Yes,  we  must  talk  business,  mustn't 
we — first  ?  Will  you  let  me  see  where  that 
— that  person  altered  it?  We  couldn't 
think  why  it  should  fail  so  in  spots. " 

She  took  the  sheets  and  ran  over  them 
quickly,  stopping  here  and  there  to  read. 

"Oh,  this  is  better  !"  she  cried  presently 
in  her  low  tone,  "so  much  better  !  Every 
touch  that — blackguard  gave  it  was  a 
blot.  This  is — perfect,  just  perfect !  It's 
what  I've  been  wanting  so  !" 

'Thank  you,"  said  young  Calthrop. 
"Not,"  he  amended,  "not  just  for  saying 
you  like  the  thing,  but — for  saying  it  that 
way.  I'd  have  worked  ten  years  for  that 
instead  of  a  beggarly  two  months." 

Miss  Berkeley  flushed  a  bit  and  made  as 
if  to  laugh,  but  she  looked  up  into  young 
Calthrop' s  eyes  with  the  little  faint  smile 
that  the  picture  had  always  worn. 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  wait  ten  years, 


JOURNEYS   END  167 

Mr.  Calthrop,"  said  she.  "Ah,  but  we 
must  talk  affairs,  mustn't  we  ?  We  must 
be  very,  very  practical,  for  we've  villainy 
to  defeat  and  honest  rights  to  establish. 
Thank  Heaven,  it  won't  be  difficult. 
Listen  !  I  saw  Mr.  Freeman  for  a  moment 
this  morning,  and  told  him  the  whole 
thing;  he  was  furiously  angry  at  that 
actor,  of  course,  and  wanted  to  post  right 
away  off  to  look  for  him  and  have  him 
arrested  or  something,  but  I  talked  him  out 
of  that  and  explained  what  my  plan  was. 
To-morrow  is  first  rehearsal,  you  know, 
and  of  course  this  Carter  man  will  be 
there,  but  so  will  we,  par  exemple.  We'll 
confront  him  with  the  whole  discovery 
before  every  one.  You  see,  he  has  no 
reason  to  think  that  his  course  isn't  quite 
clear.  Then  afterward,  after  Mr.  Freeman 
has  told  him  before  the  whole  company 
just  what  he  thinks  of  him,  why,  then  you 


168  JOURNEYS  END 

may  take  him  out  somewhere  and — and 
remonstrate  with  him  if  you  like." 

Young  Calthrop  smiled  grimly. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  shall  remonstrate  with 
him  just  a  bit,"  said  he.  "I  think  it  would 
soothe  me  wonderfully;  and  I  think,  too," 
he  went  on,  "that  your  plan  is  an  exceed 
ingly  good  one.  If  we  all  fall  upon  him  in 
a  heap,  as  it  were,  it  will  be  more  apt  to 
frighten  him  into  retreat  than  if  we  should 
give  him  time  for  some  scheme  of  defense. 
I  fancy  he's  more  or  less  a  clever  rascal. 
He  certainly  is  a  bold  one.  But  fancy," 
cried  young  Calthrop,  "just  fancy  it  turn 
ing  out  right  after — after  all !  Fancy  my 
castles  in  Spain  proving  'really  castles.' 
That  is,  some  of  them,"  he  corrected; 
"isn't  it  too  good  to  be  true  ?" 

Miss  Berkeley  laughed  softly. 

"Aren't  you  taking  a  great  deal  for 
granted  ?"  she  asked ;  "I  may  ruin  the  play 


JOURNEYS  END  169 

yet.  I  may  make  a  failure  of  it  before 
the  public." 

But  Calthrop  shook  his  head,  smiling 
derisively. 

"You're  not  frightening  me  a  bit,"  he 
assured  her,  "not  the  least  bit,  so  you'd 
best  not  try.  With  the  play  once  in 
your  hands  I  consider  it  a  success.  Your 
part  will  be  merely  to  turn  it  into  a 
triumph.  You  fail !  Great  Heaven,  you 
couldn't  if  you  should  try  !" 

"Tell  me  something,"  said  she;  "tell 
me  how  you  came  to  write  this  play.  You 
aren't  a — you  haven't  a  habit  of  writing 
plays,  have  you  ?  What  made  you  do  it  ?" 

"Why,  you!J'  said  young  Calthrop 
simply.  "I  wrote  it  for  you,  and  around 
you,  and  about  you,  or  at  least  around 
and  about  what  I  believed  you  to  be." 

The  girl  gave  a  sudden  amazed  little 
laugh. 


i7o  JOURNEYS   END 

"For — for  me  !"  she  cried  softly,  touch 
ing  her  breast  with  her  finger  tips,  "for — 

me?  Oh,  no,  no — you  must  be  jok 

Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Just  that,"  said  young  Calthrop.  "I 
wrote  it  for  you.  I  heard  everybody  say 
how  badly  you  needed  a  play,  a  play  that 
should  give  you  a  chance  to  show  how 
really  great  you  are.  Besides,  I  had  seen 
you  myself  several  times  in  London,  when 
you  were  acting  there,  and  here  at  the 
Lyric  in  'The  Horse  Guards,'  and  one  day 
in  the  shop  where  I  sell  photographs. 
You  came  in  once  early  in  the  summer 
with  Miss  Bam — with  a  friend." 

"Oh,  that  day !"  murmured  the  girl. 
"Yes,  I  remember.  I — noticed  you  then 
—and  spoke  to  Miss  Bamborough  about 
it  afterward.  Silly,  wasn't  it  ?  I  thought 
— of  course  it  was  none  of  my  affair,  and 
isn't  now — but  I  thought  it  was  so  odd 


JOURNEYS   END  171 

for  you  to  be  there.  You — you  looked 
out  of  place — and  that  makes  me  think 
of  something.  Miss  Bamborough  noticed 
you,  too,  and  you  reminded  her  very  much 
of  some  one  she'd  known  in  London,  or  at 
least  had  met  there." 

"Yes,"  said  young  Calthrop,  "I  remem 
ber  sitting  next  her  at  dinner  once  or 
twice,  I  forget  where.  So  it  isn't  alto 
gether  odd  that  I  should  remind  her  of 
some  one,  is  it?" 

"Mr.  Calthrop,"  said  the  girl,  leaning 
forward  in  her  chair  and  dropping  her 
eyes  from  his  face.  "Will  you,  sometime 
— oh,  not  now,  not  now,  but  sometime 
after  a  long  while,  when  we  know  each 
other  much  better — will  you  tell  me  what 
you  are  doing  over  here  in  America, 
away  from  everything  that  must  be  dear 
to  you,  selling  photographs  in  a  Broadway 
shop  and  writing  plays  ?  You  don't  seem 


172  JOURNEYS  END 

to  belong  to  this  sort  of  thing  at  all — 
though  you've  written  the  most  beautiful 
play  I  ever  read.  You — you  seem  to 
belong  in  such  a  different  environment." 

"Yes,"  said  young  Calthrop,  "yes,  I'll 
tell  you — sometime,  though  it's  all  quite 
ordinary,  nothing  thrilling  at  all,  I  assure 
you.  It's — nice  of  you  to  want  to  know." 

"But  about  the  play,"  continued  Miss 
Berkeley,  shaking  a  puzzled  head.  "I 
don't  see  that  you've  explained  anything 
at  all.  You've  seen  me  a  few  times — 
well? — and  you  had  heard  I  wanted  a 
play — well,  so  have  lots  of  other  people, 
but  it  hasn't  inspired  them  to  write 
masterpieces." 

"I  can't  understand  why  not,"  said 
young  Calthrop.  And  Miss  Berkeley,  for 
reasons  presumably  excellent,  turned  very 
pink  and  looked  away. 

"  But  about  that,"  he  went  on,  "  I'll  tell 


JOURNEYS   END  173 

you — sometime,  not  now.  Oh,  not  now, 
but  sometime  after  a  long  while,  when  we 
know  each  other — much  better.  May  I  ? " 

"If  you  should  want  to — after  a  long 
while,"  murmured  the  girl,  searching  with 
an  apparently  passionate  interest  for 
something  hidden  among  the  sheets  of 
manuscript  in  her  lap.  "Why,  I  suppose 
I  couldn't  stop  you — you're  so  big!"  she 
complained. 

"I  might  take  to  whisky  and  stunt 
my  growth,"  suggested  young  Calthrop 
humbly. 

Miss   Berkeley  shook  her  brown  head. 

"It  wouldn't  do  any  good,"  said  she. 
"It  would  only  stop  you  from  growing 
bigger — but — but  for  the  present  you 
might  take  to  tea.  It's  nearly  five  o'clock," 
and  she  rang  for  the  tea  tray. 

"You  may  be  as  greedy  as  you  like," 
she  explained  when  the  maid  had  brought 


i74  JOURNEYS   END 

in  the  tea  things,  " because  you're  an 
Englishman,  and  no  Englishman  can  live 
without  scandalous  quantities  of  tea,  but 
you  can't  have  any  muffins.  I  draw  the 
line  at  muffins ;  you'll  have  to  manage  with 
biscuits." 

"Ah,  but  you  see,  I  hate  muffins,"  he 
declared,  untruthfully.  "  I — I  never  touch 
them.  They're  so  very  bad  for  one,  you 
know !"  he  concluded. 

"  You  tell  lies  almost  as  well  as  you  write 
plays,"  observed  Miss  Berkeley  politely. 
"What  !  another  cup?" 

Calthrop  sat  back  in  his  chair  and 
watched  through  half-closed  eyes  the  won 
derfully  lovely  picture  that  the  girl  made 
bending  over  the  tiny  samovar  and  the 
silver  and  china  things  on  the  tray.  A 
ready  and  eager  fancy  had  changed  that 
tea-table  to  a  breakfast  table,  and  the  tea 
to  coffee. 


JOURNEYS  END  175 

Being  a  mere  man  he  reasoned  that  the 
bewildering  silky  and  lacy  thing  in  which 
Miss  Berkeley  was  at  present  arrayed 
would  be  most  appropriate  for  the  early 
— not  too  early — morning  hours.  And 
the  warm  colour  in  Miss  Berkeley's  cheeks 
he  pretended  had  been  called  up  by  having 
to  ask  him  how  many  lumps  of  sugar  he 
took — just  as  if  that  simple  question  need 
be  more  embarrassing  at  breakfast  than  at 
tea.  He  was  so  pleased  with  this  idea 
that  he  gave  quite  foolish  and  imbecile 
replies  to  a  number  of  questions  of 
Miss  Berkeley  and  justly  aroused  the 
young  woman's  wrath. 

"When  I  suggested  tea  as  a  substitute 
for  whisky,"  she  said  unkindly,  "I  had 
in  mind  your  physical  size.  I  didn't  want 
to  stunt  everything  else." 

"  Eh, what  ? "  demanded  Calthrop.  "Oh, 
I  beg  pardon !  I'm  awfully  sorry.  I'm 


1 76  JOURNEYS   END 

apt  to  be  idiotic  at  times,  you  know. 
The — the  tea's  gone  to  my  head — the  tea 
or — or  something,"  said  he,  looking  into 
Miss  Berkeley's  big  eyes.  Miss  Berkeley 
became  interested  in  the  samovar. 

"  And  so  I'm  going  away,  but  I  shall  be 
here  promptly  at  two  o'clock  to-morrow 
to  go  to  the  theatre  with  you." 

But  near  the  door  he  paused  and  picked 
up  something  from  the  floor. 

"  It's  the  rose  you  had  in  your  hair  when 
I  came  in,"  said  he,  holding  it  in  his  hand. 

"Oh,"  said  Miss  Berkeley  indifferently 
from  across  the  room,  "it  doesn't  matter; 
the  flower's  probably  dead  by  now.  Will 
you  drop  it  in  the  big  jar?  The  jar  is  a 
sort  of  waste-basket." 

"  Dead  ?  "  queried  young  Calthrop,  lifting 
the  rose  to  his  face  to  smell  its  fragrance. 
"Dead?  Oh,  no,  it's  almost  quite  fresh." 
He  smiled  down  upon  the  rose  gently  and 


JOURNEYS   END  177 

stroked  its  crushed  outer  petals.  "  Would 
you  have  me  throw  it  in  the  waste- 
basket?"  said  he.  "Why,  you've — 
you've  worn  it  in  your  hair!" 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  murmured  the  girl 
with  a  little  gesture,  "  that's  nothing  to  the 
rose." 

"I  didn't  say  it  was  anything  to  the 
rose,"  insisted  young  Calthrop. 

"After  all,"  said  she,  "it's  nothing  but 
a  flower,  a  little  crushed  flower." 

Calthrop  slipped  the  rose  into  his  waist 
coat  pocket — on  the  left  side. 

"I  have  so  few  things  of  value !"  said 
he.  "Don't  grudge  me  my  rose." 


CHAPTER  XIII 


CHAPTER   XIII 

"WHAT  I  can't  make  out,  Mr.  Carter," 
said  the  great  manager,  "is  the  curious 
moments  when  the  dialogue -is  downright 
flat.  Of  course  we  can  patch  those  spots 
up  among  us  all,  but — well,  it's  queer. 
It  almost  seems  as  if  some  one  else — "  he 
allowed  himself  a  keen  side  glance  at 
Carter-1-' 'as  if  some  one  else  had  gone 
over  your  play  and  nearly  spoiled  it  with 
interpolations." 

The  actor  changed  colour  the  very  least 
bit,  then  he  laughed  easily. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  he  with  a  shrug, 

"no  one  is  always  on  just  the  same  level, 

I    suppose.     Every    writer    has    his    flat 

moments.     It's  rather  odd,  but  do  you 

181 


i82  JOURNEYS  END 

know  that  I  considered  those  points  of  the 
play — we  went  over  them  before  in  your 
office,  you  remember — the  best  of  it  all? 
Of  course,  we  can  alter  them  if  you  like. 
I  have — I  have  a  slightly  different  version 
at  home,  to  my  mind  inferior,  but  you 
might  like  it  better.  It's  different  in  just 
those  particulars." 

They  were  on  the  stage  of  the  Lyric 
Theatre,  and  the  various  members  of  the 
company  were  sitting  or  standing  about 
in  little  groups  awaiting  Miss  Berkeley, 
who  had  not  yet  arrived. 

"Then  you  wrote  the  whole  thing 
entirely  alone?"  proceeded  Mr.  Freeman. 
"You  had  no  collaborator?" 

Carter  looked  up  swiftly  under  lowered 
brows  and  his  mouth  worked  for  an  instant 

" Why,  of  course,"  said  he.  "Alone ? — 

of  course !  What  do  you Not  that 

I  see  any  difference  that  it  would  make  to 


JOURNEYS   END  183 

you,  but  if  you  care  to  know,  I  did  it 
quite  alone." 

"Ah!"  said  the  manager.  "I  asked," 
he  went  on,  "  because  there  seemed  to 
be  a  very  general  impression  among  all 
who  have  read  the  play — including  Miss 
Berkeley  and  myself — that  the  person  who 
wrote  the  greater  portion  of  this  play  could 
not  by  any  possibility  have  written  the 
wholly  stupid  little  bits  that  are  dragged 
in  here  and  there  and  that  are  so  obviously 
out  of  place.  It  seemed  to  be  the  general 
impression  that  two  men  had  been  con 
cerned  in  the  matter,  one  with  a  dramatic 
skill  and  a  poetic  fancy  that  amounts  very 
nearly  to  genius,  and  one — well,  one  of  a 
different  type  altogether." 

"  Why,  thanks,  thanks  !"  said  the  actor. 
"That  is,"  he  amended,  "thanks  for 
thinking  so  well  of  the  greater  part  of  the 
play." 


i84  JOURNEYS  END 

"Don't  thank  me,"  observed  the  man 
ager  very  dryly;  "you  misunderstand!" 

"Are  you  trying  to  insinuate  that  I 
didn't  write  that  play?"  cried  the  actor. 
"Are  you,  are  you?  What  the  devil  are 
you  driving  at  ?  You're  mad !  If  I'm 
not  the  author  of  the  play,  where  in 
Heaven's  name  is  he?" 

"Right  here,  Mr.  Carter,"  said  Miss 
Evelyn  Berkeley  from  the  wings.  "  Right 
here,"  and  she  came  smiling  upon  the 
stage  with  the  tall  figure  of  Cecil  Calthrop 
at  her  side. 

Carter  lurched  back  suddenly  against  the 
bulky  form  of  the  manager.  His  face  had 
gone  quite  white  and  he  licked  his  lips 
as  if  they  were  dry.  He  raised  a  shak 
ing,  uncertain  hand  toward  the  young 
Englishman. 

"  You,  Calthrop  \you,  you!"  he  mumbled 
in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "You  here?  Who 


CAME   SMILING    UPOBf   THE  STAGE  WITH   THE    TALL    FIGCBLE   OF 
CECIL   CALTHROP    AT    HER   SIDE." 


JOURNEYS   END  185 

told How  did  you  find  out  ?     What, 

your 

11  Oh,  yes,"  said  young  Calthrop.  "  It's 
I.  Why  not  ?  They're  to  rehearse  a  play 
of  mine.  I'm  needed,  you  see.  What  are 
you  doing  here  ?  Are  you  in  the  cast  ? ' ' 

"It's  all  a  damned  outrage!"  cried 
trie  actor,  but  his  tone  was  quite  weak 
and  hopeless.  "  It's  a  damned  outrage  !  I 
don't  know  what  you  mean.  You're  all 
in  a  conspiracy  to  cheat  me  out  of  my  play, 

every  cursed  one  of  you '     He  turned 

toward  the  manager  and  shook  a  desperate 
hand  in  that  gentleman's  face. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  cried,  "it's  my  play, 
mine  !  I  wrote  it  and  I  brought  it  to  you 
and  you  accepted  it.  I  don't  know  who 
that  man  is  or  what  he  is  talking  about. 
The  play  had  my  name  on  it,  hadn't  it? 
hadn't  it?  And  what's  more,  you  can't 
prove  that  I  didn't  write  it.  You've  only 


1 86  JOURNEYS   END 

his  word  to  go  on.  Let  him  prove  he 
wrote  it — let  him  prove  it,  I  say !" 

"Oh,  that  is  easily  done,"  said  young 
Calthrop.  He  pulled  a  large  foolscap 
envelope  from  his  coat  pocket.  "  Here  is 
the  original  manuscript  as  I  wrote  it  with 
out  your — er,  improvements.  I  think 
this  will  settle  the  question  at  once." 

The  actor's  chin  dropped  upon  his 
breast.  His  frame  seemed  to  shrink  and 
droop  till  the  clothes  hung  loosely  upon  it. 
Young  Calthrop  dropped  the  manuscript 
and  took  a  step  toward  the  other  man. 
There  was  a  certain  smile  of  pleased 
expectation  upon  his  face.  But  Miss 
Evelyn  Berkeley  laid  her  two  hands  upon 
his  arm  and  held  him  back. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  she  murmured,  looking 
up  at  him.  "Don't  do  that!  I  know  I 
told  you  you  .might,  but — well,  he  is  pun 
ished  enough  already.  You'd  probably 


JOURNEYS   END  187 

hurt  him  badly  and  get  into  trouble. 
Don't  do  it.  Of  course,  you  want  to,  and 
— and  he  deserves  it,  but  you  can  afford 
to  be  generous.  Don't  for — for  my  sake." 

Calthrop  shook  his  head  with  a  little 
sigh. 

"You  know  I  can't  do  anything  while 
you've  your  hands  on  my  arm,"  he  com 
plained.  "You  make  me  weak  as  a  cat. 
Let  me  thrash  the  blackguard !  I — I 
won't  hurt  him.  No?  Oh,  very  well 
then,  but  I  shall  lay  it  up  against  you." 

He  crossed  the  stage  and  stood  over  the 
huddled  figure  that  had  been  Carter. 

"There,"  said  he,  pointing  with  one 
hand,  "is  the  stage  door,  and  this  is  your 
exit,  Mr.  Carter.  I  had  looked  forward 
with  pleasure  to  thrashing  you  well.  I 
stopped  awake  a  long  time  last  night 
thinking  about  it,  but  I — I'm  not  allowed, 
just  now.  If  ever  I  run  across  you  in  the 


1 88  JOURNEYS  END 

future  I  shall  try  to  beat  your  face  through 
the  back  of  your  head.  Go,  Carter — oh, 
and  let  me  advise  you  not  to  take  up 
thieving  as  a  profession.  You're  not 
clever  enough.  You're  a  blackguard,  but 
you're  no  villain.  You're  far  too  stupid. 
We're  not  going  to  have  you  arrested,  for 
it  isn't  worth  while.  Get  out !" 

"Stage  cleared  for  the  first  act!"  said 
the  manager,  and  young  Calthrop  went 
over  and  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the,  pros 
cenium  box  and  made  scathing  criticisms, 
and  had  a  beautiful  time  for  nearly  four 
hours. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  he  came  out  of 
the  theatre  and  started  to  walk  the  half- 
block  over  to  Broadway,  where  he  meant 
to  take  a  car  to  Twenty-fourth  Street. 
Then  all  at  once  he  halted. 

"Tram  car?  Tram  car?"  said  he  in 
disgust,  "Nonsense!"  He  stood  upon 


JOURNEYS   END  189 

the  curb  and  waved  his  stick  with  a  lordly 
air.  Four  hansom  cabs  at  once  charged 
down  upon  him. 

" Tuppence-ha'penny  tram  cars!"  said 
Mr.  Calthrop  as  he  settled  himself  upon 
the  cushions  of  the  winning  cab.  "Oh,  I 
think  not." 


CHAPTER   XIV 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  next  fortnight  passed  in  a  busy  but 
delightful  haze.  There  were  rehearsals 
on  the  stage  of  the  Lyric  Theatre,  morning 
or  afternoon,  in  the  course  of  which  the 
play  began  to  take  on  a  definite  and  assured 
form,  the  business  to  become  settled  and 
natural,  and  the  whole  performance  to 
move  with  an  encouraging  swing.  There 
were  frequent  cozy  little  tete-a-tete  hours 
over  the  tea-table  in  Miss  Berkeley's 
rooms,  which  had  for  their  excuse  the  dis 
cussion  of  some  point  in  the  play,  but  which 
had  a  way  of  leaving  all  such  affairs  in  the 
background  and  becoming  purely  personal. 

Of  course  he  gave  up  his  position  in  the 
Broadway  photograph  shop. 
193 


196  JOURNEYS   END 

about  something,  and  he  hated  to  think 
of  her  as  suffering.  She  was  such  a  dear 
old  girl,  such  a  tremendously  good  pal ! 

Then  something  that  he  saw  in  a  news 
paper  put  it  all  out  of  his  mind. 

The  only  son  of  the  Earl  of  Oxbridge, 
young  Harry  Calthrop,  Viscount  Martlake, 
was  dead.  His  horse  had  fallen  with 
him  in  the  hunting  field  and  rolled  him, 
out.  "Feathers'*  dead !  Every  one  in 
London,  that  home  of  nicknames,  had  called 
the  viscount  "Feathers."  "Feathers" 
dead  !  and  the  earl  a  hopeless  invalid  and 
a  widower !  The  newspaper  went  on  to 
comment  upon  the  condition  of  the  earl, 
and  upon  the  fact  that  in  default  of 
further  issue  the  title  would  go  to  a 
distant  cousin. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  young  Calthrop,  "so  it 
would  if  you  chose  to  ignore  the  personal 
equation.  Oxbridge  would  marry  again 


JOURNEYS   END  197 

if  he  were  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  rather 
than  let  the  title  and  the  estates  come 
to  me.  There's  no  doubt  about  what 
Oxbridge  will  do.  Poor  old  Harry,  though  ! 
Poor  old  chap !  By  Jove,  it's  rough 
luck ! — rolled  out  in  the  field !  It's  a 
nasty  death." 

He  spoke  about  it  that  afternoon  to 
Miss  Berkeley. 

"A  cousin  of  mine  has  just  died,"  said 
he.  "I  read  of  it  in  the  morning's  paper. 
He  was  a  very  good  sort  of  chap,  I  believe, 
though  I  never  knew  him  at  all  well. 
There  was  a  family  row  of  old  standing 
that  rather  prevented  our  being  much  in 
the  way  of  pals." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Berkeley,  "I  saw  it  in 
the  paper.  Wasn't  it  horrible  !  The  title 
will  come  to  you,  I  suppose,  eventually  ?" 

"Why,  how  the — how  did  you  know 
Oxbridge  was  a  relative  of  mine?" 


198  JOURNEYS   END 

demanded    young    Calthrop    in    surprise. 

Miss  Berkeley  laughed. 

"Oh,  Aline  Bamborough  wrote  me 
some  time  ago  what  a  swell  you  were," 
said  she.  "When  I  told  her  your  name, 
she  remembered  all  about  you  and  who 
your  people  were.  I  'opes,  Sir,  as  you 
won't  forget  your  old  pals  when  you're 
Duke  of  Strope." 

Then  Calthrop  scowled.  "Nonsense,"  he 
cried,  "Duke  of  Strope,  indeed  !  I  sha'n't 
ever  come  in  for  anything.  Oxbridge 
will  marry  again  like  a  shot.  You  don't 
know  the  tender  feeling  that  exists  between 
the  two  branches  of  the  family.  Oh,  no, 
all  that  life  is  past  and  gone,  and  doesn't 
mean  anything  to  me  now.  I  am  in  a 
different  world."  He  drew  a  long,  deep 
breath  and  leaned  forward  in  his  chair, 
smiling  into  Miss  Berkeley's  great  eyes. 

"I've   other   things   of   much — oh,     so 


JOURNEYS   END  199 

very  much  more  importance  to  think  of !" 
said  he.  "I've  another  life  to  live,  other 
people  to  consider.  I  seem  to  have  no 
heart  for  anything  beyond — why,  beyond 
this  tea-table." 

"So  greedy  as  that?"  murmured  the 
girl. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "so  greedy  as  that. 
Are  you — are  you  going  to  deny  me  what  I 
want?" 

"Tea?" 

"Why — yes,  tea,  and — and  some  other 
things." 

"As  I  told  you  the  other  day,"  said  the 
girl,  "it  wouldn't  do  any  good  to  deny 
you  tea.  You're  so  big  you  could  just 
take  it." 

"I  shall  come  for  it,"  declared  young 
Mr.  Calthrop.  "Not  when  I'm  Duke  of 
Strope,  but  when  I'm  something  much 
more  worth  while — when  my  play  has 


200  JOURNEYS   END 

been  a  great,  great  success,  and  I'm  fit 
to  ask  for — tea — and  things." 

"Your  tea,"  breathed  Evelyn  Berkeley, 
bending  her  beautiful  head  over  the 
samovar,  "your  tea  will  be  waiting — for 
you — always. ' ' 


CHAPTER   XV 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  great  day  came  at  last — as  all  days 
must.  Young  Calthrop  waked  very  early 
in  the  morning  and  endeavoured  drowsily 
to  think  what  dreadful  thing  was  to  happen 
before  he  should  sleep  again.  Then  all  at 
once  it  came  to  him  and  he  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  a  yawn  to  gasp  for  pure  fright, 
and  his  heart  began  to  race. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  he,  as  he  shivered  on  the 
brink  of  his  tub.  "It  can't  fail  utterly. 
She'd  carry  anything  through.  But,  my 
aunt,  I'd  give  a  month's  royalties  to  have 
the  ordeal  well  over  !" 

It  was  small  comfort  to  know  that  the 
house  had  been  sold  out  for  a  fortnight — 
"The  more  people  to  hiss  and  groan  if 
203 


204  JOURNEYS  END 

the  thing's  bad,"  said  he  pessimistically. 
"Lord,  I'm  going  into  a  blue  funk  !  "  and 
he  half  emptied  a  large  silver  flask — for 
medicinal  purposes. 

During  the  morning  he  went  into  a 
large  florist's  shop  on  Broadway  and 
ordered  a  ruinously  extravagant  bunch  of 
pink  roses  sent  to  Miss  Berkeley's  dressing- 
room  at  the  theatre,  and,  as  an  after 
thought,  he  sent  some  out  to  the  little 
house  in  Harlem,  too.  "I  don't  fancy  the 
poor  old  girl  has  many  roses  sent  her,"  he 
reflected. 

In  the  afternoon  he  wandered  miserably 
into  the  theatre,  where  he  found  the  great 
manager  personally  superintending  the 
disposal  of  some  scenery,  and  was  chaffed 
by  that  gentleman  upon  his  unhappy 
mien. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  he,  wagging 
his  head,  "you  may  chaff  all  you  like,  but  I 


ORDERED    A    RUINOUSLY    EXTRAVAGANT    BUNCH    OF    PINK    ROSES.' 


JOURNEYS   END  205 

tell  you  if  your  funeral  were  coming  off 
to-night  you'd  look  just  as  interested 
about  it  as  I  do.  I've  tried  to  drink 
myself  into  insensibility,  but  drink  won't 
affect  me  at  all.  It  only  makes  me  sadder. 
Tell  me  a  funny  story,  won't  you?  If 
I  don't  laugh  you  can  make  believe  it's 
because  I'm  only  an  Englishman.  Great 
Heavens,  only  three  o'clock !  There  are 
five  hours  and  a  half  yet,  and  every  da — 
blessed  one  of  them  is  sixty  years  long." 

Nevertheless,  at  the  expiration  of  those 
three  hundred  and  thirty  years  he  found 
himself  standing  in  the  rear  of  a  crowded 
theatre  while  the  orchestra  played  a  gay 
and  spirited  air  that  Calthrop  will  never 
forget  so  long  as  he  lives. 

"You  oughtn't  to  be  playing  that,  you 
know,"  he  complained  inwardly.  "You 
ought  to  play  Chopin's  'Funeral  March,' 
or  the  'Dead  March'  out  of  'Saul.''  This 


206  JOURNEYS  END 

thing  is  altogether  too  frivolous  and  light- 
hearted." 

There  was  a  polite  round  of  applause  as 
each  of  the  well-known  members  of  the 
company  appeared,  and  a  prolonged  roar 
when  Miss  Berkeley  came  upon  the  stage. 

'That's  right,  that's  right !"  cried  young 
Calthrop,  screwing  about  in  his  chair 
excitedly — he  had  taken  an  aisle  seat  near 
the  back  of  the  house.  "Keep  it  up,  God 
bless  you  !  Don't  get  tired  !  Keep  it  up  !" 
and  he  settled  back  with  a  little  sigh  as 
the  applause  abruptly  ceased  to  allow  the 
play  to  proceed. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  piece 
was  catching  on.  Its  atmosphere  was 
genuine  and  convincing,  and  the  lines  won 
a  constant  appreciation  that  increased  as 
time  went  forward.  Young  Calthrop 's 
smile  grew  broader  and  more  compre 
hensive.  From  the  eager  state  of  mind 


a 


' 


FOUND   HIMSELF  STANDING  IN  THE  REAR  OF  A  CROWDED  THEATRE.' 


JOURNEYS   END  207 

of  a  jockey  who  tries  to  push  along  with 
his  own  strength  the  already  good  efforts 
of  the  horse  he  rides,  he  fell  into  a  pleased 
calm,  the  calm  of  assured  success,  of  an 
anxiety  put  away. 

He  mingled  with  the  cigarette-smoking 
crowd  in  the  lobby  between  the  first  and 
second  acts,  and  listened  to  their  com 
ments,  which  were  almost  invariably 
enthusiastic,  though  he  cherished  for  a 
moment  murderous  designs  upon  one 
cynic  who  remarked  to  a  companion  that 
this  sort  of  nursery  gabble  might  amuse 
the  matinee  girls  but  that  for  his  part  he 
preferred  stronger  meat,  something  a  bit 
racier. 

The  second  act  went  quite  as  well  as  the 
first,  and  at  its  end  there  were  several 
curtain  calls  and  a  great  many  flowers 
sent  up  over  the  footlights,  contrary  to 
the  rules  of  the  theatre. 


208  JOURNEYS  END 

"Ah,  just  you  wait,  my  friends,"  mur 
mured  a  certain  young  man  from  his  aisle 
chair.  "If  you  like  this,  just  wait  until 
the  end  of  the  next  act."  And  he  went 
around  behind  the  curtain  to  express  his 
delight.  The  manager  was  there,  smiling 
and  triumphant. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  he  demanded, 
pumping  at  young  Calthrop's  hands. 
"Didn't  I  say  it  was  going  to  catch  them  ? 
By  Jove,  they've  hardly  missed  a  point, 
and  they've  taken  to  things  that  I  thought 
would  never  get  a  hand.  Success?  why, 
my  very  dear  man,  it's  a  mere  stroll 
around  the  track  !  It's  a  record  breaker  ! 
Now  look  here,  you  clear  out  of  this. 
You're  in  the  way.  No,  you  can't  see 
Miss  Berkeley  or  any  one.  They're  all 
dressing  for  the  third  act.  But  I  say, 
come  around  after  the  last  act." 

The  third  act,  in  accordance  with  stage 


JOURNEYS   END  209 

tradition,  contained  the  "strong"  scene, 
and  at  its  end  there  was  such  a  noisy 
confusion  of  applause,  calls  for  "Speech! 
Speech !"  and  unstinted  expressions  of 
approval  from  the  gallery  as  the  Lyric 
had  seldom,  if  ever  before,  heard.  Many 
more  flowers  were  passed  up  over  the  foot 
lights,  and  Miss  Berkeley  was  called  before 
the  curtain  again  and  again,  till  at  last 
she  shook  her  brown  head  in  desperation 
and  positively  refused  to  appear  again. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  so?"  said  young 
Mr.  Calthrop  to  the  world  at  large.  * '  Didn't 
I  tell  you  to  wait  until  the  end  of  this  act  ? 
I  tell  you,  this  is  a  ripping  good  play — if 
I  did  write  it !  Of  course,"  he  added, 
apologetically,  "it's  the  acting  that  really 
makes  it  good.  I  don't  mean  to  crow 
about  my  part  of  the  thing — but  I  assure 
you  the  next  act  is  just  as  good." 

After  the  close  of  the  fourth  and  final 


210  JOURNEYS   END 

act,  while  most  of  the  audience  were  upon 
their  feet  cheering  and  applauding,  and  the 
rest  were  hunting  for  hats  and  sticks  under 
the  seats,  he  went  quickly  around  to  the 
wings  and  stood  there  smiling  cheerfully, 
while  the  curtain  was  rung  up  and  down, 
and  up  and  down  again,  with  the  entire 
cast  strung  out  across  the  stage,  hand  in 
hand.  Then,  when  the  curtain  was  down 
to  remain,  and  Miss  Berkeley  was  out  in 
front  of  it  bowing  to  a  still  unsatisfied 
throng,  he  went  in  to  where  the  company 
stood,  laughing  and  talking  together,  and 
told  them  what  tremendous  hits  they  had 
made,  and  congratulated  them  one  by 
one,  and  said  how  he  wished  he  might 
always  write  plays  for  just  that 
company. 

They  said  they  knew  no  reason  why  he 
shouldn't,  and  nearly  dislocated  his  right 
arm  telling  him  how  much  they  thought 


JOURNEYS  END  211 

of  him,  till " the  "old  woman"  held  up  a 
warning  hand  and  said : 

"S-s-s-h !  if  I'm  not  mistaken  there's 
a  noise  out  there  that  concerns  you, 
Mr.  Calthrop." 

They  all  listened  and  young  Calthrop 
turned  pale.  The  house  was  undoubtedly 
shout:,ig  "Author!  Author!" 

"I  won't  go!"  cried  Calthrop,  wildly. 
"I  won't,  I  tell  you !  Let  me  alone ! 

Why,  Lord  of I  tell  you  I  shall  fall  in 

a  fit  and  die  on  your  hands — then  you'd  be 
sorry,  wouldn't  you?  I  won't  go  !"  But 
they  gathered  about  him  in  an  eager, 
laughing  group  and  pushed  him  toward 
the  curtain,  while  the  great  manager 
smiled  paternally  from  the  distance  and 
said: 

"Go  on,  go  on;  they  want  you;  it's  your 
turn  now !" 

Then  Miss  Berkeley,  very  flushed  and 


212  JOURNEYS   END 

panting,  burst  in  from  before  the  curtain 
and  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"Not  go  on?"  she  cried.  "Of  course 
you're  going  on !  Don't  you  hear  them 
calling  for  you?"  And  young  Calthrop 
followed  her  like  a  lamb. 

The  great  glare  of  the  footlights  struck 
him  like  a  blow.  The  great  mass  of  pale, 
upturned  faces  seemed  curiously  near,  as 
if  he  might  touch  it  by  stretching  out  his 
hand;  and  it  was  making  a  great  deal  of 
noise.  He  felt  that  he  must  look  an 
absolute  idiot  all  alone  there  in  that  search 
ing  light.  He  felt  like  a  bear  in  a  pit,  a 
bear  that  every  one  was  laughing  at  and 
making  fun  of.  Then  all  at  once  the 
noise  ceased,  and  young  Calthrop  gave  a 
little  gasp  and  took  a  step  forward  to  the 
mass  of  faces. 

"I  am  sure  it's — it's  awfully  jolly  of 
you,"  he  began. 


JOURNEYS   END  213 

"A  little  louder!"  remarked  a  voice 
from  the  gallery.  "Just  a  little  louder, 
if  you  please !"  Some  of  the  people 
laughed,  and  Calthrop  grinned  unhappily. 

"Oh— I— beg  pardon,"  said  he.  "I 
was  just  saying  that  it's — it's  very,  very 
jolly  of  you  to — like  our  play,  and  to — 
think  of  my  part  in  it,  though  what  the 
dev — what  in  the  world  you  called  me  out 
for  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I — I  really 
can't  make  a  speech,  you  know — I  can 
only  say — thank  you  !  Oh,  but  I  say," 
he  cried,  moving  down  a  bit  closer  to  the 
footlights,  "don't  waste  your  time  and 
applause  on  me — my  part  is  such  a  small 
one — but  give  every  bit  of  it  where  it 
really  belongs — to  Miss  Evelyn  Berkeley, 
and  let  me  help  you  do  it !' ' 

He  stepped  quickly  back  to  the  edge  of 
the  big  curtain  and  thrust  it  aside  with 
one  hand. 


2i4  JOURNEYS  END 

"Come  out  here,"  said  he,  and  led  Miss 
Berkeley  upon  the  stage,  while  the  audience 
cheered  and  clapped  its  hands,  and  the 
orchestra,  being  German  and  hysterical, 
played  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner." 

"You  dear!"  cried  Miss  Berkeley  when 
they  were  once  more  behind  the  curtain. 
"You  dear !  There's  no  one  in  the  world 
like  you.  I — I  think  I'm  going  to  cry. 
But  I  was  never  so  happy — in  all  my — 
life."  She  laid  her  two  hands  for  an 
instant  upon  his  breast  and  turned  her 
beautiful  flushed  face  up  to  his. 

"I've  your  roses  in  my  dressing-room," 
she  whispered,  "all  but — but  one,  and 
that  is — never  mind  where  that  one  is. 
I  think  more  of  them  than  of  all  these 
others  put  together.  I  shall  take  them 
home  to-night  with  my  own  hands." 

An  excited  little  group  of  friends  claimed 
her  vociferously,  and  young  Calthrop  took 


LED    MISS    BERKELEY    UPON    THE    STAC.R. 


JOURNEYS  END  215 

his  hat  and  coat  and  made  his  way  out  to 
the  street.  The  last  stragglers  from  the 
audience  were  leaving  in  their  carriages 
or  on  foot  toward  Broadway.  Calthrop 
beamed  on  them  affectionately. 

''Bless  your  hearts  !"  said  he,  with  a 
comfortable  smile ;  "y°u  know  a  good  thing 
when  you  see  it,  don't  you?  I'd  like  to 
shake  hands  with  every  one  of  you." 

It  was  a  cool,  fresh  night,  with  stars  and 
a  little  north  breeze.  Calthrop  drew  a 
long,  deep  breath  and  stretched  his  arms. 
He  felt  that  his  race  was  run,  well  run  and 
won,  and  it  left  him  with  the  happy  sense 
of  extreme  well-being,  of  friendship  with 
all  the  wrorld. 

The  cabmen  ranged  along  the  street 
raised  gravely  interrogative  fingers  as  he 
paused  on  the  curb,  but  he  shook  his  head 
and  turned  toward  Broadway  on  foot. 
He  wanted  to  walk,  to  breathe  the  clean 


216  JOURNEYS  END 

night  air,  to  taste  the  freedom  that  comes 
from  moving  about  after  a  long  strain. 

Once  in  the  two-pair-back  in  Twenty- 
fourth  Street,  he  lighted  the  gas,  all  the 
gas  the  room  afforded,  and  filled  the  old 
Varsity  pipe  that  had  shared  the  labours 
of  these  last  months  so  faithfully.  He 
stood  before  the  portrait  of  Miss  Evelyn 
Berkeley  and  bowed  profoundly. 

"We've  won,  my  lady,"  said  young 
Calthrop ;  "I  told  you  we  would  win,  didn't 
I?  Didn't  I?  I  knew  it  was  bound  to 
come.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  have 
been  so  certain,  but  I  was.  We've  been 
through  some  heavy  seas,  and  we've  come 
very,  very  close  to  shipwreck,  but  we've 
won,  my  lady !" 

The  portrait  seemed  somehow  less  ready 
to  smile  through  the  blue  smoke-wreaths 
to-night.  It  looked  out  over  his  head 
with  its  grave,  questioning  gaze.  The 


JOURNEYS   END  217 

lips  trembled  toward  a  smile — but  the 
smile  seemed  not  for  him.  Young  Calthrop 
dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  little  old 
writing-table  where  the  play  had  had  its 
birth  and  regarded  Miss  Berkeley  with 
an  anxious  frown. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  not 
pleased?"  he  demanded.  "Nonsense,  you 
are,  too !  You  told  me  only  a  half -hour 
ago  that  you  were  never  so  happy  in  all 
your  life.  And  then — why,  then  your 
friends  came  and — and  took  you  away 
from  me." 

He  puffed  for  a  time  in  frowning  silence. 

"Your  friends  came  and  took  you  away 
from  me,"  he  mused.  "I  wonder — I 
wonder  if  that's  just  it.  I  wonder  if  that 
doesn't  sum  up  the  whole  situation — if — 
if  things  were  a  little  different  you  wouldn't 
have  let  them  take  you  away,  would  you  ? 
I  wonder  if  they'd  always  do  that ! 


2i8  JOURNEYS   END 

Your  friends,  and  your  thousands  of 
admirers,  and  your  work,  and  your  ambi 
tion  !  I  wonder  if  I  were  to  go  to  you 
to-morrow  and  ask  for  tea — and  things — 
if  I'd  get  them.  Oh,  yes,  you  said  I  would 
whenever  I  should  come ;  but  would  I  ? 
You're  a  very  famous  actress,  my  lady, 
famous  in  two  countries,  and  you're  young, 
oh,  very  young,  and  beautiful.  If  you 
wanted  to  marry  you'd  fly  higher  than  an 
unknown  young  maker  of  plays,  wouldn't 
you  ?  Yes,  ah,  yes  !  I  might  have  thought 
of  that — why,  even  if  you'd — marry  me 
— me  now,  while — while  we're  thrown 
together  here,  wouldn't  you  be  sorry? 
Afterward,  I  mean,  long,  long  afterward, 
when  you  had  become  much  greater  and 
more  famous  than  you  are  now  and  had 
even  more  men  of  consequence  at  your 
feet?" 

He  rose  impatiently  from  his  chair  and 


JOURNEYS   END  219 

took  up  the  familiar  march  up  and  down 
the  length  of  the  room,  pulling  hard  at  the 
sputtering  pipe. 

" Somehow,  my  lady,"  said  he,  "you 
seem  farther  from  me  to-night  than  ever 
before,  upon  your  pinnacle  of  success  and 
popularity  and  fame — surrounded  by  all 
those  people  who  know  you  and  make 
much  of  you  and  tell  you  what  a  future 
you  have  in  store — I  wouldn't  figure  well 
in  that  future,  would  I?  They'd  be 
aghast  at  the  idea  of  its  including  me, 
wouldn't  they?  My  lady,  my  lady,  I'm 
afraid  you're  not  for  me !  It's  odd  that 
success  should  make  me  see  it,  but  I  think 
I've  been  dreaming  dreams.  Perhaps — 
perhaps  you've  been  dreaming  them,  too. 
God  bless  you ! — but  I  think  that  if  I 
were  to  see  you  to-morrow  you'd  have 
wakened.  Ah,  no,  a  great  career  mustn't 
be  handicapped.  Still — to-night  you  said 


220  JOURNEYS   END 

I  was  a  'dear/  My  heart  jumped  a  bit 
then.  Was  it  just  excitement — joy  over 
the  triumph?  You  cared  more  for  my 
roses  than  for  all  those  other  flowers  put 
together.  Was  it  just  kindness,  gratitude  ? 
My  lady,  my  lady,  I  don't  know !  Upon 
my  faith  I  don't  know  !  So  here's  for  bed 
and  a  good  night's  sleep.  La  nuit  porte 
conseil.  God  grant  us  clear  sight  in  the 
morning !" 


CHAPTER  XVI 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HE  had  left  orders  for  all  the  newspapers 
to  be  brought  to  his  room  early,  and  he 
read  them — or  at  least  their  notices  of 
"Journeys  End" — in  bed.  They  were 
better  than  he  could  have  hoped,  more 
favourable  than  the  most  sanguine  could 
have  dared  expect.  Calthrop  had  been 
no  such  fool  as  to  imagine  that  the  popular 
triumph  of  the  night  before  would  mean 
unstinted  praise  in  the  press,  and  he 
opened  the  papers  one  by  one  with  some 
nervousness.  One  by  one  they  were 
lavish  of  good  words,  not  fulsome  flattery, 
but  hearty  congratulations,  to  company 
and  author.  Some  of  them  pointed  out 
shortcomings,  faults  that  young  Calthrop 
223 


224  JOURNEYS  END 

was  forced  to  admit  worthy  of  considera 
tion.  But  all  were  strongly  encouraging — 
all,  that  is,  with  the  exception  of  one  very 
"yellow"  sheet,  whose  critic — alas!  an 
Englishman  born — saw  fit  to  follow  his 
usual  custom  and  produce  a  would-be 
epigrammatic  column  of  flippant  and  silly 
abuse — still,  since  this  person  was  nowhere 
seriously  regarded  he  didn't  trouble  young 
Calthrop  in  the  least. 

"The  last  wall/'  said  he,  stropping  his 
razor.  ' '  The  critics  !  And  now  the  world' s 
ours !" 

With  his  coffee  there  came  the  early 
post,  two  letters  with  tuppence-ha'penny 
stamps.  He  knew  the  writing  on  each. 
One  was  from — he  turned  his  head  and 
smiled  toward  the  girl  on  the  mantel — 
from  Molly,  bless  her !  He  laid  it  aside 
as  one  saves  the  best  for  the  last.  The 
other — why,  the  other  looked  like  Moxam's 


w  a 

(X    <J 

•<  w 

(X    rt 
CO 

£  W 

W  H 

is 


l 

s  * 


JOURNEYS  END  225 

hand.  Good  old  Moxam  !  But  it  wasn't 
time  for  Moxam's  quarterly  remittance. 
What  could  he  be  writing  about?  He 
tore  open  the  envelope  and  unfolded  the 
gray  sheets  curiously.  Yes,  it  was  old 
Moxam's  queer,  crabbed  little  hand.  No 
typewriters  for  Moxam  &  Moxam ! 

"Our  painful  duty,"  he  read  hastily — 
"inform  you — death  of  Edward,  sixth 
Earl  of  Oxbridge — general  collapse  follow 
ing  death  of  only  son — doubtless  already 
known  to  you — newspapers — your  city." 

Oxbridge  dead — dead  a  week  ago ! 
Calthrop  dropped  the  letter  with  a  white 
face.  Newspapers?  Why,  he  had  hardly 
glanced  at  a  paper  for  over  a  week. 
Oxbridge  dead !  And  poor  Harry  dead, 
too  !  Yes,  he  knew  that — but — why,  then, 

the  title He  snatched  up  the  letter 

again.  His  hand  shook  a  bit  as  he  held  it. 

"In  absence  of  direct  issue — title  and 


226  JOURNEYS   END 

entailed  estates  revert,  of  course,  to  you. 
Take  it  for  granted  that  your  return  to 
England — not  be  delayed — old  duke  very 
feeble — much  broken " 

Calthrop  felt  blindly  for  the  faithful  old 
pipe  and  filled  and  lighted  it. 

"And  I'm— Earl  of  Oxbridge!"  said 
he  slowly,  and  stared  frowning  at  the 
wall.  "Earl  of  Oxbridge  !  And  the,  old 
duke's  very  feeble — much  broken.  In 
time  I'll  be  Duke  of  Strope." 

He  moved  uncertainly  up  and  down  the 
room,  frowning  still.  His  eyes  met  the 
portrait  of  Miss  Evelyn  Berkeley,  but  she 
seemed  still  to  be  looking  out  over  his 
head,  beyond  him  somewhere — the  lips 
would  not  smile. 

"What  to  do?"  said  young  Calthrop, 
beating  his  hands  together  softly.  "What 
in  Heaven's  name  to  do?  I  can't  go 
back  there.  My  work's  cut  out  here. 


JOURNEYS   END  227 

I'm  beginning  to  be  of  some  consequence. 
What  to  do  ?  Go  back — there — back  to — 
home — home?"  A  queer  little  smile  came 
to  his  face — a  far  away  smile.  He  was 
beginning  to  smell  may  and  box  and 
gorse  again — to  feel  a  horse  between  his 

knees — to  see The  eyes  of  the  little 

picture  in  the  gold  frame  met  his  own. 

11  Molly !"  cried  young  Calthrop  in  a 
strange,  shaking  voice,  and  all  at  once  it 
was  as  if  he  had  left  her  yesterday.  All 
this  latter  toil  and  struggle,  all  the  life  of 
this  new  world,  bitterness,  yes,  and  triumph, 
too,  sweet  as  it  was,  dropped  from  him  like 
a  garment.  He  tore  open  the  square  thick 
envelope  with  trembling  fingers.  The 
faintest  possible  scent  came  from  the'paper. 
It  was  like  the  scent  of  Molly's  black  hair. 

"Jack,  Jack!"  said  the  letter— and 
young  Calthrop' s  heart  began  to  leap. 


228  JOURNEYS  END 

She  had  used  to  call  him  "Jack'*  because 
Cecil  was  such  a  dreadful  name  to  do 
anything  with — you  couldn't  shorten  it 
properly.  " You'll  have  heard  by  this 
time  from  your  solicitors  the — news.  I 
tried  to  say  'terrible  news,'  Jack,  but  I 
can't !  I  can't !  It's  joyful  news,  dear, 
the  joyfulest  news  that  a  certain  little 
English  girl  ever  in  all  her  life  has  heard, 
for  it  is  going  to  bring  you  back  to — us — 
isn't  it,  Jack?  isn't  it?  You'll  not  stop 
out  there  in  that  dreadful  place  any  longer, 
will  you  ?  Of  course  you  won't,  though — 
it's  foolish  to  ask.  My  boy,  what  a  time 
you've  had,  haven't  you !  Storm  and 
stress,  Jack,  heavy  seas  and  foul  weather ; 
but  it's  over  now,  thank  God !  I  think 
I've  suffered  through  it  all  as  much  as  you ; 
more,  perhaps,  for  I  could  only  sit  at  home 
and  dream  and  hope  and — wait.  Wait 
ing's  harder  than  working,  boy.  True,  I 


JOURNEYS  END  229 

had  your  letters.  Helas,  there  were  but 
five  of  them  !  and  they  helped  some ;  they 
were  dear,  brave  letters.  Ah,  for  the  time 
to  come  when  there  needn't  be  any  more 
letters !  Have  you  ever  feared  for  an 
instant  that  I  might  forget  you,  Jack? 
Forget !  You  don't  know  me  !  If  it  had 
been  a  lifetime  instead  of  six  months,  I 
shouldn't  have  forgotten  one  little  thing, 
one  little  detail.  You  thought  when  you 
went  away  that  it  was  forever,  didn't  you, 
dear?  You  thought  you  were  giving  up 
home  and  the  home  people  and — and  me, 
forever.  I  remember  you  told  me  to  for 
get  you — to  think  of  you  as  dead.  Jack, 
you  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to 
tell  a  woman  that !  I  didn't  forget — I 
didn't  even  want  to.  There  were  things 
that  I  should  have  remembered  when  I 
came  to  die  of  old  age,  and  smiled  with 
happiness  over.  Ah,  enough  of  this. 


23o  JOURNEYS   END 

Come  home,  Boy  !  Come  home  to  the  good 
old  sights  and  sounds  and  smells.  Can  you 
think  of  them  now  without  a  thrill  ?  You 
can't,  I  know.  Come  home  to  the  friends 
who  are  waiting  for  you,  to  the  girl  who — 
wants  you.  Oh,  yes,  yes,  dear,  and  loves 
you,  loves  you  !  It's  been  a  long  journey, 
but  it's  near  the  end.  What  do  journeys 
end  in,  Jack  ?  Ah,  lovers'  meetings ! 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know.  The 
days  are  very  long,  dearest.  Come  back 
to  us.  Ah,  no,  come  back  to  me !  I'm 
waiting  at  the  Towers.  MOLLY." 

Calthrop  threw  out  his  arms  over  the 
little  table  and  laid  his  face  upon  them. 

"Journeys  end — in  lovers'  meetings ! 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meetings." 

A  maid  knocked  at  the  door  with  a  note. 

"By  messenger,  sir,"  she  said. 

Calthrop  tore  open  the  envelope  and 


JOURNEYS  END  231 

spread  out  the  sheet.     There  was  a  little 
gold  E.  B.  in  the  upper  corner. 

"Have  you  seen  the  papers?"  asked  the 
note.  "Aren't  they  dears,  nearly  every 
one  of  them?  I'm  half  mad  for  joy. 
Think  what  a  step  this  is  for  me !  And, 
just  fancy,  the  greatest  actor  in  America, 
the  very  greatest,  said  to  me  last  night 
after  it  was  all  over,  'You  have  a  future 
before  you,  my  dear,  such  as  no  other 
young  woman  on  the  stage  can  look  for 
ward  to.'  What  do  you  think  of  that? 
Ah,  but  that's  not  what  I  started  to 
write.  You  see,  I  am  a  bit  excited  and 
inconsequent.  Won't  you  come  to  see 
me  this  afternoon?  We've  such  a  lot  to 
talk  over,  you  know,  about  the  play  and 
about — oh,  a  lot  of  things.  Why  did 
you  slip  away  so  quickly  last  night?  I 
wanted  you  to  stay.  I  even  sent  some  one 


23 2  JOURNEYS  END 

out  to  the  street  to  look  for  you,  but  you 
were  quite  gone.  You  will  come  this 
afternoon,  won't  you  ?  There's  your  tea, 
you  know.  Would  you  care  to  hear  that 
your  roses  are  here  on  the  table  where  I 
sit — all  but  one  of  them?  Come  at  four. 
I've  much  to  say  to  you,  so  very  much. 
"EVELYN  BERKELEY." 

Young  Calthrop  sat  for  a  long  time 
smoothing  the  blue  note-paper  with  his 
fingers,  and  staring  out  of  the  windows  at 
the  two  great  alders  that  were  dropping 
their  leaves  upon  the  clotheslines  and  ash 
tins  beneath.  Once  he  looked  up  at  the 
picture  above  the  writing-table,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Miss  Berkeley's  little 
smile  had  somehow  undergone  a  curious 
and  subtle  change.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
she  no  longer  looked  off  over  his  head  at 
something  beyond.  It  seemed  to  him  that 


JOURNEYS  END  233 

her  great  eyes  met  his,  infinitely  kind, 
wondering  a  bit,  as  always,  but  very  soft 
and  tender  and  beautiful.  She  seemed 
to  stir  and  breathe,  as  she  sat  there  in 
the  flaring,  old-fashioned  gown  with  the 
roses,  to  lean  forward  slightly  toward  him, 
and  through  the  morning  noises  that  came 
up  into  the  room  from  the  areas  below  and 
from  the  streets  he  could  hear  her  voice, 
very  low.  And  he  knew  quite  well  what 
was  the  unspoken  message  that  the  note 
on  the  pale  blue  paper  bore. 

He  rose  and  went  over  to  the  mantel 
where  stood  the  picture  of  the  Honourable 
Molly  Hart  well.  He  looked  at  the  waving 
black  hair  drawn  to  a  big  knot  at  the  back 
of  the  neck.  He  looked,  with  an  old, 
familiar  thrill,  into  the  great  eyes  that  met 
his  own  so  frankly,  so  honestly;  at  the 
long,  straight  English  brows  and  the  fine 
nose,  and  that  little  Greek  mouth  with  the 


234  JOURNEYS   END 

curled  upper  lip,  and  trie  beautiful  full 
white  throat  that  rose  from  the  most 
splendid  shoulders  he  had  ever  seen.  And 
he  remembered  all  he  had  fought  for  six 
months  to  keep  out  of  his  mind. 

"Molly!"  whispered  the  Earl  of 
Oxbridge,  "Molly,  I  seem  to  have  been 
having  a  long,  queer  dream,  and  some 
of  it  was  bad,  a  nightmare,  and  some  of 
it  was — sweet,  I  think."  He  kissed  the 
little  picture  and  set  it  down  before  him. 

"But  I'm  awake  now,"  said  he,  drawing 
a  long,  deep  breath  and  squaring  his 
shoulders.  "I'm  awake  now.  I'm — 

I'm "  His  eyes  caught  the  gravely 

smiling  eyes  across  the  room,  and  his 
voice  faltered  and  trailed  away  into 
silence.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  heard 
her  voice  again,  over  the  outdoor  noises 
of  the  city,  very  low. 

"I  tell  you  !"  he  cried,  setting  his  back 


JOURNEYS   END  235 

defiantly  against  the  mantel  and  frowning 
across  the  space,  "I  tell  you  it  was  a 
dream !  I  don't  belong  here.  I'm  Earl 
of  Oxbridge.  I'm  no  writer  of  plays.  I 
don't  belong  here.  Fate  played  me  a 
queer  trick,  and  for  a  time  I  thought — 
ah,  never  mind  what  I  thought !  It  was 
all  a  queer  dream.  My  place  is  elsewhere 
— and  the  journey's  over.  What  do 
journeys  end  in,  Molly  ?  Lovers'  meetings, 
lovers'  meetings !" 

His  voice  trailed  away  once  more  into 
silence,  and  his  feet  bore  him  unconsciously 
to  the  other  side  of  the  room  and  the  little 
old  writing-table  there.  And  he  stood 
looking  anxiously  into  Miss  Berkeley's 
eyes,  his  hands  clasping  and  unclasping, 
and  straining  the  one  upon  the  other. 

"Can't  you  see?"  he  argued,  "that  I 
must  go?  Can't  you  see  that  I  belong 
there — that  my  place  is  win  my  home? 


236  JOURNEYS   END 

Why  do  you  try  to  make  it  so  hard  for 
me?"  And  once  more  he  thought  that 
he  heard  her  voice — very  low.  It  set  his 
heart  to  racing. 

He  sat  down  heavily  and  laid  his  head 
in  his  hands  with  a  little  sigh.  His  body 
and  his  perception  of  the  things  about  him 
seemed  dulled,  stupefied,  but  his  mind 
went  swiftly,  as  do  the  minds,  they  say, 
of  people  drowning  or  falling  from  great 
heights,  over  all  his  life  and  into  the  two 
futures  open  to  him,  very  swiftly,  with  a 
certain  unnatural  activity. 

"Journeys  end — in  lovers'  meetings/* 
he  whispered,  but  he  did  not  know  that  he 
spoke.  It  was  the  journey's  end  in  either 
event.  Whether  he  went  back  to  England, 
where  his  place  awaited  him  among  all  the 
sweet  old  familiar  home  things — and  by 
Molly's  side — or  stopped  here  in  America, 
where  he  had,  all  in  a  night,  sprung  into 


JOURNEYS   END  237 

fame;  in  either  event  troubles  and  hard 
ships  were  over,  and  the  future  opened 
fair  and  clear. 

From  London  and  Devonshire  the  home 
things  called  with  a  sweetness  that  no  one 
but  an  exile  can  understand,  and  above 
them  all  beckoned  Molly's  eyes.  Here 
in  America  lay  the  joy  and  pride  of  a 
triumph  out  of  personal  endeavour,  a 
hard-won  victory  that  presaged  fame  and 
fortune  and — he  glanced  up  for  an  instant 
at  the  picture  above  the  table.  He 
realized  fully  as  he  faced  the  question 
now  in  all  gravity  what  sort  of  a  future 
lay  before  him  here.  He  knew  that  he 
could  do,  with  enlarging  experience  and 
ripening  powers,  much  better  work  than 
this  present  play,  and  the  life  drew  him 
strongly,  for  he  had  the  artistic  tempera 
ment  grafted  upon  his  father's  hard-headed 
radicalism,  and  he  placed  a  high  value  upon 


238  JOURNEYS   END 

personal  achievement ;  but  across  the  ocean 
lay  that  which  drew  as  strongly,  for  he 
bore  under  his  enthusiasm  and  independ 
ence  the  Englishman's  inborn  reverence 
for  the  responsibilities  of  rank. 

The  morning  grew  brighter  and  warmer. 
There  came  up  into  the  open  windows  a 
rattling  of  ash  tins  from  the  areas  below, 
the  subdued  roar  of  the  elevated  trains 
from  Sixth  Avenue,  a  wheezing  strain  of 
Verdi  from  a  street  organ,  and  once  the 
sharp  staccato  whistle  of  a  fire  engine 
passing  near.  But  the  man  sat  very 
still  by  the  little  writing-table,  his  elbows 
upon  the  table's  top  and  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

An  hour  later  the  chambermaid  knocked 
softly  at  the  door,  and  hearing  no  answer 
came  in  with  brooms  and  towels  and  dust 
cloths. 

"Oh,  I — I — excuse  me,  sir  !"  she  begged. 


JOURNEYS   END  239 

"I — was  a-coming  in  to  do  up  the  room. 
I  thought  you  was  out." 

The  Earl  of  Oxbridge  raised  his  head 
with  a  little  jerk  and  smiled  at  the  woman. 

"I  shall  be  out  in  five  minutes,  Mary," 
said  he  cheerfully.  "I  have  only  to  write 
a  short  letter." 

He  pulled  a  sheet  of  note-paper  toward 
him,  still  smiling  the  confident,  assured 
smile  of  one  whose  mind  is  irrevocably 
fixed.  He  wrote  the  letter — it  was  only 
two  or  three  pages — and  directed  and 
stamped  the  envelope.  Then  he  took  up 
his  hat  and  stick  and  gloves  and  went 
down  into  the  street.  He  did  not  glance 
at  either  of  the  two  portraits  as  he  left  the 
room. 

He  went  quickly  along  the  untidy  pave 
ment  of  Twenty-fourth  Street  and  picked 
his  way  across  Madison  Square  toward  the 
post-office  on  the  corner.  He  held  the 


240  JOURNEYS   END 

letter  which  he  had  written  carefully 
in  one  hand,  but  its  face  was  turned  inward 
so  that  it  could  not  be  seen  whether  the 
stamp  on  it  was  for  foreign  or  domestic 
carriage. 

THE   END 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


3299  F.    Journeys  End 


JUSTUS  MILES 


Justus  Miles  Forman's  new  novel,  Journeys  End,  is  a  book  of  a 
Lady  or  the  Tiger  nature.  The  reader  is  put  to  the  answer  of 
this  question :  Supposing  you  had  just  leaped  into  fame  as  the 
author  of  a  surprisingly  successful  play  in  America,  and  supposing 
that  meanwhile  you  had  come  unexpectedly  into  an  English 
dukedom,  which  would  you  choose,  in  the  event  that  you  were 
matrimonially  inclined,  an  English  peeress  or  the  talented  and 
fascinating  young  actress  who  had  captured  the  public  for  your 
play?  Well,  a  novice  would  answer,  "Whichever  one  I  loved." 
But  he  forgets  that  psychology  asks,  Which  do  you  really  love? 
and  ethics,  Which  ought  you  to  love  ? 

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THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
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'936 

.  ,2QMirt3SSP 

MAR  7    W63 

LD  21-100m-8,'34 

1Q  32663 


925359 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


3299  F.    Journeys  End 


JUSTUS  MILES  FO'K.MAN 


Justus  Miles  Forman's  new  novel,  Journeys  End,  is  a  book  of  a 
Lady  or  the  Tiger  nature.  The  reader  is  put  to  the  answer  of 
this  question:  Supposing  you  had  just  leaped  into  fame  as  the 
author  of  a  surprisingly  successful  play  in  America,  and  supposing 
that  meanwhile  you  had  come  unexpectedly  into  an  English 
dukedom,  which  would  you  choose,  in  the  event  that  you  were 
matrimonially  inclined,  an  English  peeress  or  the  talented  and 
fascinating  young  actress  who  had  captured  the  public  for  your 
play?  Well,  a  novice  would  answer,  "Whichever  one  I  loved." 
But  he  forgets  that  psychology  asks,  Which  do  you  really  love? 
and  ethics,  Which  ought  you  to  love  ? 

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